The Monster of Notre Dame
by PeachyM00NShine
Summary: AU. (Adopted from Kat With Shamrocks) When Ivan, the mysterious bellringer of Notre Dame, attends a festival, he meets Alfred, the gypsy boy who will open his eyes to the world he has been hiding from.
1. The Bells of Notre Dame

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing: not the characters, not the plot, not the songs, (Songs will probably be spoken more than sung, but I'll be using words as dialogue/monologue.) not even the concept/idea. As stated in the description, this is an adopted fic. [Scroll to the bottom for more information.]

* * *

_**The Bells of Notre Dame…**_

In the rosy city of Paris, the denizens are awoken by the echoes and reverberations of the bourdon bell. Its chimes always ring in the new day and command the people to start their tasks and chores. But on _this_ day, the sixth of January, 1482 to be precise, people take delight in hearing the bourdon being followed by a series of lighter chimes. It is as if the metallic notes are encouraging everyone to take their time and enjoy as much of the day as possible.

Yet there is one such man who needs no reminder to enjoy life; the ever vivacious and mysterious gypsy puppeteer known only as Francois.

"_Morning in Paris, the city awakes to the bells of Notre Dame…"_

Francois has no house, no legal property, and no means of getting from here to there, yet every morning his caravan (which doubles as his theatre) would be found in a spot completely different from the previous. Whether it is to have a fresh audience for his shows or to thwart any vagrancy charges is debatable, but on _this_ particular morning, Francois' cart is found on a quaint street beside the Parisian pearl, Notre Dame.

"_The fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes to the bells of Notre Dame…"_

Francois sits contently in his caravan. Putting the finishing touches on his harlequin clothes, he sews some small bells onto a golden-dyed tippet while singing strong and smoothly for anyone willing to hear. He makes sure to wink or blow a kiss to anyone kind (or foolish) enough to send a denier or two his way. "_To the big bells as loud as thunder…To the little bells soft as a psalm…" _Most people however, hardly pay him any attention as he sings of the beautiful bells that have become such an important part of the city and its people. They clutch their skirts and change purses; either turning up their noses in disgust or ducking away in fear. In turn, Francois does not acknowledge them. After all, such behaviors are expected when one is a gypsy. "_And some say the soul of the city is the toll of the bells…"_ As his song finishes, Francois sees that he has attracted an audience; a handful of children who probably have not even a worthless English coin in their pockets, but still an audience. "_The bells of Notre Dame~ _Listen! They are beautiful, non? A symphony of color, sound, and moods," the puppeteer smiles softly as he soaks in the atmosphere. To Fancois, even the ripest of women and wine cannot compare to the pure love, wonder and adoration these children have reserved for him. "Because you know," whispers Francois as he leans in their direction, subtly setting up for a story, "They do not ring all by themselves."

Much to the children's delight, Francois pulls out his cutest hand puppet: a small vessel of cloth with little wooden buttons stitched on as eyes and wooly cat-like ears peeking through brown threads of hair. It "asks" in a squeaky voice, "They don't?"

"Non, silly Picardy. Up there, high, high up in the dark bell tower lives the mysterious bell-ringer." He says, gesturing to the majestic cathedral. "Who is this creature?"

"Who?" repeats the puppet, Picardy.

"What is he?"

"What?" Picardy repeats again.

"How did he come to be there?"

"How?" Picardy repeats for a third time.

In mock annoyance, Francois strikes his puppet with a stick, commanding him to "hush!" "Big brother will tell you. It is a sad tale that many would deny, but a true one. It is a tale of a man and a _monster_…"

In Francois's caravan, a curtain rises to reveal a preset stage and the show begins…

* * *

**Dark was the night that started it all  
On the quay near Notre Dame~**

_In the dead of night, a small wooden boat silently cuts through the slushy waters of the Seine. Two flaxen-haired sisters huddle together in an attempt to keep themselves and a tightly wrapped bundle warm. The infant within the bundle, unaware of the serious situation the group is in and not understanding the need for silence, cries at the pain of cold air filling his new lungs. The younger sister scowls. Her hands tightly clutch her most prized possession, a bullock dirk that has been very helpful in the past. "Sister!" She hisses in a voice as icy as the river. "Keep that thing quiet or get rid of it!"_

_The older sister takes off her pale pink scarf, wraps it around the bundle and then brings said bundle closer to her generous bosom, hoping to comfort her recently orphaned baby brother; or at least muffle his cries. "Quiet Vanya, we are almost there. But until then, we must not make a sound, da?"_

**Three frightened gypsies slip silently  
Under the pier near Notre Dame~**

_Eventually, the boat reaches a shadowed riverbank that had been deemed safe enough to let out at. Though they are eager to settle in this promising city, the sisters are unable to set their feet onto the snow-covered ground before their pimple-faced smuggler holds out his hand, demanding his pay. "Four francs for safe passage into Paris, missus."_

**But a trap had been laid for the gypsies!  
And they gazed up in fear and alarm  
At a figure whose clutches were iron just as the bells of Notre Dame~**

_Unfortunately for the siblings, their metaphorical wagon had been hitched to a cocky ass. This smuggler has eluded the soldiers for some time, mostly by being lucky and discreet but it is funny how pride and one too many drinks at an alehouse can change that._

_Instead of parting ways in hopes of never seeing each other again, both the smuggled and the smuggler are greeted by an ambush of soldiers. Arrows fly through the air and plant themselves into the ground; a warning to not move. More soldiers rush onto the scene with sharp and sturdy swords at the ready._

_The younger sister, in an outburst of fury, surprises one of the soldiers with her dirk. She whips the blade out with practiced ease and plunges it into his dominant hand. Her effort however is in vain for there are more soldiers to replace the incompetent one; each equipped with restraints and the experience needed to deal with those who resist arrest._

_However the final nail in the coffin, the puzzle piece that puts an end to the gypsy resolve, is the presence of the newly appointed Minister of Justice; a man with such a stony-hearted sense of righteousness that words of his deeds and practices have spread throughout all of France (and even other parts of Europe), Judge Arthur Kirkland. Even at a distance, the older sister trembles under the haughty gaze of the intimidating official. Tears well in her eyes and the drops that spill over freeze on her cheeks. Her breath comes out shaky and uneven as a clumsy gasp stumbles from her lips._

**Judge Kirkland was a gentleman praised by decency and the Law.  
And he strived to purge Paris of the sin and debauchery he saw.**

_From the shadows emerges the mastermind behind this snare, Arthur Kirkland; his ivy green eyes already imagining the lawbreakers being devoured by the pious flames of godly justice. From his horse, he scowls down at the crying trespasser and calls, "You, woman…" A pale finger protrudes from the velvety black robes donning his figure. With a voice commanding respect, he demands to know what it is that the buxom sister is trying to hide._

"_H-honestly monsieur, it is only my baby b-brother. I wish not to expose him to the c-c-cold." The gypsy woman blubbers nervously, twisting this way and that, trying to keep her brother away from the soldiers' eyes._

_Arthur scoffs. "Pagan wretch! Do you take me for a fool? You are obviously lying," he says. Arthur turns to address the troops. "It is probably stolen goods. Take them from her."_

**~she ran~**

_Through the dark, slick, snow-covered streets she runs. The gypsy woman has only one goal in mind: sanctuary. She wants sanctuary for sneaking illegally into the promising city and for resisting arrest of course, but more importantly, she needs sanctuary for the innocent babe in her charge. Why should he suffer for being born at an inopportune time? To a family of scorned entertainers? Sanctuary: that is the empowering mantra that she repeats to herself. Fear for her brother wills her heart to pump despite the freezing cold and drives her to stay ahead of the horse-aided judge._

_Her cunning takes her to the narrowest of streets in hopes that M. Kirkland would lose her in the shadows of the buildings, but he continues to stay a fraction of a step behind._

_Though the young gypsy woman has no idea where to direct her feet, a force more merciful than luck seems to be on her side, for her erratic twists and turns lead her to a light within the shadows; an opening. Just beyond the dark and dabby alleyway, the figure of Notre Dame stands as a refuge. Encouraged further by Her appearance, the gypsy dashes faster down the alley and vaults over the iron railing- the sole barrier betwixt hope and despair- and skids through the slippery mound of snow and slush on the other side. Not wanting to waste anytime, she pushes herself onward to the rumored-to-be inviting doors of the cathedral, pounding with every ounce of strength left in her tired and stressed body, crying, "Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!" For a moment, she truly believes that everything will turn out all right; that she and her brother will be sheltered; that somehow they would find their sister and the three of them could live together in a wonderful place where they could be accepted…_

_But reality comes charging at her in the form of Arthur Kirkland and his midnight-hued horse. Overwhelmed with fear, she stands frozen in place for a few seconds and she pays for the instinctual reaction dearly. In one swift motion, Arthur jumps down from his steed and grabs the bundle, snatching it with the comparative strength and precision a predatorial bird would. And when the gypsy woman refuses to give in, he retaliates with a strong and abrupt shove._

_The gypsy reaches out desperately for M. Kirkland. If her pleas for sanctuary ever reached his eardrums, he gave no heed. Instead, he mentally congratulates himself while unwrapping the tightly bound scarf._

_Arthur has seen this trick before; the "baby" scam. Usually it is rags and rubbish stuffed into a blanket and shaped to resemble a baby in order to trick honest, hard-working, God-fearing folk into funding a vagrant's liquor stock. In other cases, it is a means of concealing ill-gotten gains. So as Arthur unfurls the thing, he expects change purses, valuables, or maybe even a concealed weapon; not a crying, squishy…thing._

"_A baby?...God's blood! A monster!" Arthur holds the unsightly baby as far from his person as possible. Never before has he ever seen such a creature! A series of thoughts sail through his mind, faster than the biting wind whipping at his hair and clothes. He absent-mindedly mutters to himself things like, "Is this a nephilim reborn from Noah's day?" and, "Vile women! Fornicating with the devil…" Without commanding them to, his feet lead him to a well. Since the waters springing from it are on hallowed grounds, it is said that the water itself has a touch of holiness to it. Perhaps it is holy enough to send this demon back to hell where it belongs?_

_As Arthur holds the infant over the gaping mouth of the inky pit, another voice, one older and bolder than his own, breaks through to him._

"**STOP!" cried the archdeacon.**

_Archdeacon Julius rushes onto the snowy scene. "What is going on out here?" He says as he kneels beside the woman still lying on the stairs, not caring that his pristine white robes would be forever stained with the her blood. He looks up; surprised to see Minister Kirkland holding a squirming, crying baby over the cathedral's well. With a voice quaking in anxious anticipation, again he asks, "What is going on?"_

_Arthur coldly disregards the concerned Archdeacon and continues to hold the wriggling baby over the dark and stone-lined muzzle of death. "It is only a woman trying to evade arrest. I will be taking her to the Palais de Justice as soon as I deal with this…_thing_."_

_Archdeacon Julius checks the woman's wrists and neck for a pulse. His usually cheerful face falls as he comes to a sad conclusion. "I do not think you will be taking her anywhere," he says before signing a cross over himself and kissing his gold and ruby rosary. "She is dead."_

"_Dead?!"_

_Archdeacon Julius is an old man, but he is still lively and strong for his age. And even though many of his associates would call him foolish or scatter-brained, all would admit that when it concerns serious matters, he is not a person to take lightly. Arthur remembers this as the Archdeacon gives him a stare stronger than reinforced iron. "You are responsible for the blood that has spilt on the steps of Notre Dame!"_

"_I was doing my job. Surely you cannot blame me for that?"_

"_Now you would add this child's blood to your guilt, on the steps of Notre Dame?"_

_Again, Arthur coldly disregards the Archdeacon and his accusations. After all, in his heart and mind he did the right thing. With his profession, situations often turn ugly. One must be prepared to fight or defend themselves. Though it is no secret that the judge does not like gypsies, he does not intend to kill them himself. No! Their addled lives are in the hands of God and the Law._

"_You can lie to yourself and your infantry. You can claim to not have a qualm, but the blood spilled on these steps will call you every day in the sound of the Bells of Notre Dame."_

**With plaintive disposition, Judge Kirkland became docile  
As the Archdeacon explained a way to reconcile**

"_Care for it?" Arthur grimaces as he looks over the baby (if one could call it that). He knows that over time he could learn to not be so repulsed by the little bastard's appearance. He might even be able to grow fond of it, but the visitants of the Palais de Justice, both welcomed and…requested, would not make things easy. Also, as a government official, he has a reputation to maintain. It simply would not do if all of Paris were to discover the Minister of Justice's compunction, and although it would be much more convenient to lock the little beast in a dungeon for the rest of its days, such treatment is not the way one usually "cares" for things._

_Arthur looks at the limp body of the nameless woman; her blood being scrubbed away by a two italian clerics- two more witnesses of what has transpired this evening. He sighs, resigned to his fate. "Very well, but I cannot house him. Let him live with you in the church."_

"_Live here? Where?"_

"_Anywhere, as long as he is kept from the cruel eyes of people…The bell tower perhaps?"_

_Once again, a serious expression overtakes Archdeacon Julius' face. "Arthur…" he growls out._

_Arthur flinches at the use of his given name. It has been a while since anyone has used it with such familiarity._

"_You cannot shirk this responsibility." Archdeacon Julius stands up with the gypsy corpse in his arms. Such a shame; she was a beautiful woman, and probably seeking sanctuary. It is only fair to give her a proper burial. He looks to the baby; no longer dangling over the frigid waters of the well. "If he is to stay here-"_

"_I will take care of him!" Arthur says as he covers the baby. He brings the infant closer to his robes in an effort to keep it warm. "I shall even educate him and mold his thinking properly. He will prove to be a useful servant to myself and God."_

* * *

Francois closes the curtain and directs the town children's attention to a small set. He holds up a hand puppet dressed in black with bushy brows and little green beads for eyes. "And so, Judge Kirkland adopted the little boy and cruelly gave him a fool's name: Ivan. _Here is a riddle to guess if you can, sing the bells of Notre Dame. Who is the monster and who is the man? Sing the Bells of Notre Dame._" His audience claps and cheers as a silhouetted puppet pulls on a string, ringing a little bell. Now that the story in over, the little ones skip off merrily or are collected by their _generous_ parents.

Coins are handed to him and Francois counts them with glee. After all of the little metallic pieces are transferred into his change purse, he feels a little tug on his arm and hears an angelic voice call, "Monsieur Francois?" He looks down and there standing on her tip toes to reach into his caravan is a little girl of surprisingly short blonde hair and green eyes. To be honest, if it were not for the blue ribbon in her hair and the finely made dress, he would have mistaken her for a boy. "Is that really what happened?" she asks ever so sweetly.

Francois opens his mouth-

"Of course not!"

-but he is not given the chance to answer. Standing less than a stone's throw away is the _très mignon _albeit very temperamental Cdr. Basch Zwingli. "It is only a story Lili. You should not think so much about it." He gives the puppeteer a couple of sols along with a pointed, mostly neutral expression spiced with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "That was a very interesting story, _monsieur,_" he says curtly. "But it is still just a story."

Francois smiles. "Yes, it was interesting n'est pas? Certainly more amusing than one of a babe abandoned only to be discovered and laughed at by a pair of gossiping nuns." Unable to help himself, Francois winks at the high ranking soldier, making sure to make a subtle yet seductive gesture. He laughs as the now red-faced guard storms off with little Lili in tow. Though he would not mind being in the company of Cdr. Basch (or any knight with a nice arse), it simply would not do for business; especially if he plans on getting away with his somewhat slanderous story.

Yes the origin and appearance of the mysterious bell ringer are subjects of both wonder and ridicule. There are many stories circulating about. Some even claim it is a demon seeking repentance from God! Francois knows that most of the rumors are bullshit, but he cannot say in good conscience that his version is the complete truth either.

The only person who could honestly say what happened on that night rests beneath the grounds of Notre Dame, and he will not be talking for a long time…

Neither will the unknown occupant of a nearby grave plot; where a beautiful, flaxen-haired woman is said to lie…

* * *

**A/N:** Technically the name Ivan means "glorious gift/God's gift" and "archer". I was making reference to the song, _The Bells of Notre Dame_ and _Ivan the Fool_, a character in a series of Russian fairytales, chastised for being simple-minded or kind but in the end it's those qualities that cause him to gain riches and stuff.

If you couldn't tell, the gypsy women are Belarus (she was a little OOC) and Ukraine and the Archdeacon is Rome. I would have named him "Romulus" but I don't think it would have flowed right.

**Medieval French Monetary System  
**_(Or at least what I understand of it)_

1 French franc = 1 livre

1 franc/livre = 20 sols (called _sous_ after 1715)

1 sol = 12 deniers

**If I'm wrong, feel free to tell me.**

This fic is not originally mine. _The Monster of Notre Dame_ is an unfinished fic written by **Kats With Shamrocks**. I read it, fell in love with it, and with her permission I have adopted it. It's not exactly like her fic. I am making it my own but I am also doing my best to stay true to her vision. If you want to read her version as well as this one, go to her profile page or search it (she's leaving it up).

Thank you for reading and please review. Seriously, I have been out of touch with my beta reader for some time so any reviews (especially helpful, critiquing ones) will be greatly appriciated.


	2. Out There

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing and any resemblance to **_Kats With__ Shamrocks _**fic "_The Monster of Notre Dame" _ is intentional. [See the first chapter for more details.]

* * *

**_Out There..._**

Echoes of the morning bells ring throughout the dark and spacious bell tower. Its sole occupant wipes the sweat from his brow and welcomes the cool mid-winter breeze. It is another morning in Notre Dame.

The bell-ringer, Ivan, releases the ropes of the bells and hobbles to the balcony, startling a flock of pigeons in the process. It is just another part of his morning routine; scaring the shit out of some hapless creatures. It is annoying that they flee from him at every opportunity despite having seen him countless times, but he does not hold it against them for he too would fly far away if he could. And what better day to fly than on the Festival of Fools!

For a moment Ivan allows himself to daydream about the festival. As a bird, he could dive into the crowds below and submerse himself into that colorful world of merriment. He could watch jugglers, enjoy the music, and even flutter with the dancers if he wanted! And when the fun was over, he would join the other birds and they would fly away together; wherever their little bird hearts desire…

But it is not meant to be. Ivan is not a bird. He is a monster; and like other monsters, he must be kept away from the normal people…

Ivan sighs. Recalling the somewhat melancholic reality that is his life, Ivan hobbles back inside, away from the sunshine not meant for him, and makes his way back to _his_ part of the bell tower; where he sleeps, eats and feels the most "at home". It is also where he keeps his "friends". In reality they are statues incapable of any thought action or emotion, but when Ivan is feeling particularly morose or in need of company, he allows himself to find companionship in the chiseled characters. Even when he doesn't feel like talking to them, he takes delight in their inhuman appearance for they make him feel less lonely. As Ivan sits at his table, which also doubles as the ground for his scale model of Notre Dame and Paris, listlessly toying with his little wooden figurines, he tries his best to ignore the gaze of the gargoyles but it is impossible to ignore their stony stare. _"Is something wrong, Ivan?"_ Ivan shifts to the kind-faced gargoyle with angel wings; the one he christened, _Toris_. He is greeted with warm eyes and a soft smile. Ivan found Toris ten years ago (at the age of thirteen) abandoned with cracks, scratches, and an invasion of moss. _"Today is Epiphany, right? Isn't there a show waiting for you outside?"_

_"What? Epiphany? That means there is a festival today!"_ Ivan turns to the most oddest looking gargoyle in his collection. It has horns, bat-like wings, a devilish smirk, and even a pronged tail, but its most fearsome feature is its eyes: two crimson colored gems that twinkle in even the faintest of light. Unfortunately, many years ago, when its paint had worn off- as with the other gargoyles- white marble had been revealed to be underneath rather than grey stone. Because of its inability to "fit in" with the other gargoyles, it had been removed from its place on the cathedral and locked away in the bell tower like a beast. Ivan named this one _Gilbert_. _"There are only three reasons for the awesome me to stand in that awful sun: fights, floggings, and the feast of fools. I command you to watch it with us!"_

With a shake of his head, Ivan sighs. "Not this year."

Gilbert scratches his horns and frowns. _"Are you sick or something?"_ He folds his arms and flicks his tail in annoyance, but Ivan can't tell why exactly he is annoyed. Could it be from being denied view of the festival? Or is it from lack of understanding why they will not watch the festival? If Ivan had been completely honest with himself, he would have admitted to feeling a little annoyed as well.

"Nyet. I do not feel like watching the festival, that is all."

Toris gasps and Ivan could almost feel smooth stone rubbing circles into his back. _"But watching the Festival of Fools has always been the highlight of the year for you."_

_"Well yeah but, like, what good is watching a party if you, like, never get to hear it or join in or anything?"_ The third statue in Ivan's company is a beautifully sculpted cherub that Ivan has named _Feliks_. It had been positioned oh the far side of the cathedral's garden until one spring when the wine loving sons of le Duché d'Anjou visited the city. On the eve of their departure, the cherub had been found wingless and covered in pink paint. Instead of being cleaned up and set back in place, it had been removed and replaced.

_"Kesesesese! Is that all?! If you feel so left out, why don't you just get off your ass and go down there instead?"_

"You think I have not thought of that?" On this date, the days leading up to it, and usually for a few days after, Ivan's thoughts are of nothing but the various things he would have done if he could bear to step out of the bell tower. He would play games, sample wines and cheeses of various regions, enjoy the folk music and maybe even dance a little! But… "I would like to go, but I would never fit in down there." The closest Ivan ever gets to the festival is taking his crude wood-carven counterpart out of his miniature bell tower and placing it on the table top amongst the other wood-whittled people.

Ivan glances up at the shards of stained glasses he has dangling over his tabletop. Throughout the day, they create a spectacular show of color and spread light to the darker parts of his room. Unfortunately, as the glass pieces fill his room with beauty, they also mock him by reflecting his _**hideous**_appearance; distorting his already deformed features in various angles to the point that Ivan can no longer tell which reflection is "true" and which ones are the contorted exaggerations.

Ivan's body is covered with dreadful marks that look like burns; a travelling friar, wandering where he should not, once walked in on him dressing, saw his bare back and had called them whip-lashings of the devil! There are also many scars on his skin from stretching and tearing over the years as he grew to his abnormal size. One of his legs is at an odd angle- He had fallen from a great height once upon a time and the bone hadn't healed properly; causing him to gimp around. And his face! It is his worst feature for it is always uncovered! Even the unusual ashen wires he calls hair cannot shield such a visage! And if his monstrous height, strength, and scars do not scare you, then his demonic, violet eyes, larger than average nose, sharp-toothed smile, eerie voice, and unintentionally intimidating aura are sure to make you scream/run/faint/soil yourself in fear.

An uncomfortable silence, one that matches the bell tower, settles within Ivan's mind as he reflects upon his reflection. He swings at the glasses, feeling a little less despondent at that beautiful twinkling sound, and grabs his long pink scarf that is sitting nearby. The soft yet worn and slightly tattered cloth has been with him for as long as he could remember and he always feels safer and happier when it is curled around his neck. Ivan loves this scarf and wears it everyday no matter the weather or season. In fact, he is so accustomed to this accessory, he feels as if it is a part of him and has even developed a habit of twiddling with the tassels when he is nervous. Unfortunately, there is one side-effect to donning the comforting cloth: _someone_ becomes dispirited whenever he sees Ivan fidgeting with it.

That same someone is the also the main reason Ivan squanders any ambitions to leave the bell tower.

"How could I forget?" Ivan asks no one. He picks up his best looking figurine: a man covered from the neck down in black and carrying a little, black, cross-covered book in his hands. It is also the only figurine with eyes a different color than black; two bright green drops of paint with a flicker of the intensity its human counterpart has. "Master would never permit me to leave, especially for the Feast of Fools. To ask would be a pointless."

_"Dummkopf! Who says you gotta ask?"_

_"It is only one afternoon."_ Toris adds. _"You could sneak out and sneak back in. Arthur would never know."_

_"Yeah and like what is the worst that could happen? I mean, like, even if he finds out, Arthur is like totally not that scary. Okay! So his eyebrows are like über huge and his cooking is gag-me-with-a-spoon gross, but he is not like mean or totally vicious or anything."_

Ivan is silent as the idea of actually _acting _upon his fantasies sets in. It would be nice to be like one of the busy bodies he has seen so many times from the balconies. He stares at his large, marred hands. The scars, calluses and rope burns loudly testify to his ugliness. "I could wear a disguise, da?" He smiles at the statues as he stands up and begins rummaging around for means to conceal himself. "Some gloves...maybe something with a hood...There must be something I could use."

"Good morning, Ivan."

Startled by the sound of a new voice (and not just any voice; it is the voice of his master!), Ivan stops his searching. He stumbles out from his makeshift bedroom and into the presence of his caretaker. Somehow he manages to rush out a, "Good morning, Master" without tripping over his words, but he cannot keep his fingers still. Instead, the shaky digits tangle around and tug the tassels of his scarf.

Striding through the shadows of the belfry is a man looking almost identical to the black garbed figurine on the tabletop (save for the size, slightly graying hair, and the basket). This is Ivan's master, Judge Arthur Kirkland. Everyday the good Judge visits to share a meal, provide conversation, and make sure that his charge is healthy and living in accordance to the good book's teachings. "Lad, whomever were you talking to?" he asks with a raise of one massive brow.

Ivan bows his head out of respect, humility, and shame. "...M-my friends." Though it rarely happens, Ivan has always hated being caught off guard in his fabricated, not-so-solitary world.

"I see..." Arthur looks around at the lifeless creatures with contempt. "Tell me, Ivan, what are your friends made of?"

"S-stone...They are made of stone." Ivan keeps his gaze to the floor. His cheeks and ears burn in embarrassment.

Arthur stops before Ivan while on his way to the table. He tenderly touches Ivan's cheek; a silent command to look him in the eyes. Slowly, as if speaking to a someone soft in the head, he asks, "Can stone talk?"

"No Master. It cannot."

He chuckles briefly. "Such a smart lad!" This is not the first time Arthur has caught his ward talking to those stone carvings. Each time he would wonder about the unsightly chap's sanity. "I thought we could have an early lunch today, perhaps we should review your alphabet while we are at it?" It is not a question and it is not exactly a request either, but as Arthur divides the vittles between the two of them he expects the proper confirmation.

Ivan joins Judge Kirkland at the table, making sure not to grimace at the burnt and tasteless food before him. After all, it is nice of the busy judge to prepare a meal specifically for him; and even though it will be gross, it is the thought that counts. "I would like that very much, Master."

"Very well, **_A_**?"

"Abomination..." Ivan speaks softly. It is a nervous habit, but he knows that Arthur would prefer his quietness over fiddling with his scarf. _**'I am an **_**_abomination_****_.'_**

"**_B_**?" Kirkland recites while pouring wine.

"Blasphemy..." _**'I am a **__**blasphemy**__** against God.'**_

**_C_**?"

"C-c-contrition..." _**'I am forever in **__**contrition**__**. My very existence is a sin.'**_ In his self-destructive thoughts, Ivan does not notice Arthur's grip on the bottle tense.

With a slightly deeper scowl, Arthur reaches for his wine-cup. A drink should calm him. "**_D_**?"

"Demon!" _**'I am a **__**demon**__**...'**_

Before the wine reaches his lips, Arthur's grip tightens on the cup. He takes a deep breath and decides to wait for the fermented drink to still. "_**E**_?"

"Eternal damnation!" _**'...doomed for **__**eternal damnation**__**.' **_Ivan is not entirely sure of how he feels about his fate, but he has accepted it. If he suffers in the afterlife, at least he will not be suffering alone.

"Good. _**F**_?" Kirkland asks, finally able to take a sip of his wine.

He was not thinking, and perhaps he should have been; for when "Festival," breaks forth from Ivan's lips, a spray of wine spews from Arthur's.

"What?" Kirkland asks the sheltered savage.

Ivan knows this voice as the "calm before the storm." It is the steady, smooth, and icy tone his master uses while condemning a miscreant or before scolding some fool stupid enough to cross him. Ivan himself has been on the receiving end of the storm before. There is nothing he is more afraid of: his pupils dilate, his body trembles, his head bows deeper than before, and as his breathing quickens, he nervously twiddles with his scarf again; earning a sharper scowl from the irked minister. Ivan tries placating Judge Kirkland by quickly muttering, "Forgiveness!" but it's too late for that. Arthur backhands him; the large, jewel-encrusted rings graze across his cheek.

Kirkland stands over the motionless monster. "You were thinking about going to that wicked festival were you not?!"

Ivan knows not to lie, definitely not in the house of God...and _especially_ not in the presence of his master. "I-I wanted to go this year, M-master. J-just like you do, Master."

"_I_ am a public official; I must go! But that does not mean that I enjoy it!" Judge Kirkland walks through the tower, traveling down a series of steps here and there on his way to some fresh air. Like a loyal, obedient dog, Ivan follows at his heels. "Thieves, drunkards, and all other sorts of sinners mixing together in an orgy of immorality! Whatever decent folk there are unwittingly corrupting themselves with the company and _'entertainment'_ of those devil-worshiping gypsies." By the time the duo have made it outside, Judge Kirkland has relaxed a considerable amount. However he is still a little annoyed and the glare he gives says that he is perfectly fine with letting Ivan know.

Ivan flinches as those venomous eyes focus upon him. "I am sorry, Master. I did not mean to upset you."

Arthur turns to the people working below; an intense scowl is still on his face. "I find it very odd that you want to be amidst _them_, Ivan..."

Ivan flinches again.

If Kirkland notices, he says nothing about it. "...Especially after what your heartless mother did to you. You know," Arthur turns back to the demonic young man. His lips twitch into a smirk. "Anyone else would have drowned you! And this ungrateful attitude of yours is the thanks I get for providing you shelter and taking care of you?"

Ivan has heard these words before, and each time he feels immense sorrow and guilt. Perhaps he should have been drowned...

Arthur sighs. "It is not your fault that you forget these things. This bell tower is a refuge against the cruelty and wickedness of mankind, but I know all to well of the world outside of these walls...and it is I alone who you can trust." Arthur turns back to Ivan and touches the recently welted cheek. His lips twitch to form a smug smile as Ivan winces. "I who have raised you, dressed you, fed you, and taught you. And it is I who can look at you unafraid." He says while gently running his finger's through Ivan's hair. He leads Ivan back inside saying, "Only in this tower you are safe. How am I to protect you if you are not in here?

"Follow me, Ivan, and listen; remember what I have taught you," Arthur says when they are inside once again. His voice thunders against the stone, bells, and beams. "You are disfigured, and you are ugly; and these are crimes that the world will not pardon you for. Do you understand?"

Ivan limps after his master. He nods along to the minister's words, desensitized to their meaning. He is ugly, it is nothing new. Even the figurine he carved of himself is unsightly in comparison to the others.

"Out there you will be mocked as a monster..."

**_'I am a monster...'_**

"Outside you would suffer for no reason..."

_**'Only a**_**_ monster...'_**

"Why you would want to put yourself through such hatred is beyond me!" Arthur takes a few deep breaths; knowing that if he does not calm himself, he will come off looking more like an unlearned brute rather than an educated gentleman. He continues, "Thank God I am here for you; to teach you these things; to explain to you the hatred and brutality of the ignorant masses." Arthur sees the wooden figurine in Ivan's likeness standing in the middle of little Paris. He picks it up; trapping the little thing in a cage of flesh and bone. "You do not know how well you have it here, Ivan," he says softly. "I was safe in the embrace of Notre Dame. In my youth, when I was a priest, this cathedral was my refuge, my sanctuary, as it is now yours." As Arthur loses himself in the memories of his days of priesthood, he unconsciously squeezes little wooden Ivan. "But Paris was sick- and still is sick! She needed me! The filth and trash of _their _kind polluting every house and street...so duty called me...God called me..."

Ivan says nothing as Arthur mutters of the degraded outside world. Each almost incoherent grumble clashes with the hopes that Ivan has been hiding for the entire twenty-three years he has spent in this place. Usually Ivan's loyalty to his master and caretaker squashes such hope and curiosity; this time however, his thoughts fight against Arthur's teachings.

"Outside is anguish..."

_"Outside is, like, pretty and stuff..."_

"Outside is nothing but rubbish..."

_"Outside there are people. You could make friends...__**real**__ friends..."_

"Outside there is immorality, depravity, and sin..."

_"Outside could be awesome! Find out for yourself..."_

"In here you are safe from the pain and the refuse of the world; and should you go out there, you will only meet your ruin..."

_"Try it! See the world for yourself! If the awesome me was made by those people, it cannot be that bad..."_

_"And even if it is, that is something you must discover on your own. Arthur will not find out..."_

_"Like, follow your instinct for freedom. See if it, like, pays off..."_

"So please for your sake," Arthur takes Ivan's carving that is still in his hand and places it on the Notre Dame carving. "Do as I say and stay in _here_."

Racked with guilt and confusion, and feeling even more worthless and indecisive than usual, Ivan cannot bring himself to even look at his master. He just knew that those green eyes were full of disappointment; and if they fell upon him, he would probably turn into a sniveling, groveling mess. "You are kind to me, Master. I am sorry."

"You are forgiven." Arthur walks back to the stairwell. His inky black garments, slow strides and soft steps inadvertently make him look like a shadowy spirit as he slinks into the darkness. "Remember Ivan," he says, looking back. "This is your sanctuary." He sends one last smirk to his monstrous charge before slamming the door shut...

Leaving Ivan alone once more...

"Da, my sanctuary..." Ivan ponders over the meaning of such words. He truly is safe behind these old windows and parapets, but what is he safe from? From scorn and ridicule? From suffering? From moral confusion and corruption? All of which he has no _real_ proof of and has never _really_ seen.

Ivan looks up at the bells. How majestic and ancient they look! Ivan looks to his gargoyle friends. This is the only world Ivan has ever known: the darkness, the silence, the cold, and the terrible loneliness. His only means of comfort being his imagination and the splendor of the bells...but Ivan wants so much more! These things are meant to be alone and they only provide sound and speech when he wishes them to. Is it wrong to want _real _companionship? _Real _experience? And _real _light, life, sound, and warmth? Real things provided by someone or something other than his fantasies? Is that really so wrong?

Ivan moves from his seat and climbs up a series of beams to look outside. He gazes upon the people down below. Though there is only one person he knows (a certain minister who can now be seen walking through the square), there are many bodies that he recognizes. For as long as he could remember he has watched them come, go, and even grow. He has seen them praised and punished; marry and mourn; he has seen them experience a spectrum of emotions and has known the causes of them all. All while he hides away. Whether they know it or not, their lives have become a part of his. He knows them as they would never know him; as they might not even know themselves. Everytime he looks out onto the world below, even after watching a fight or an execution, he wonders what it would be like to among them instead of above them...

Ivan jumps down to his floor. He hobbles to his table, picking up figurines that had fallen during the luncheon along the way. He places them where they belong on the tabletop: at the butcher shop, at the boulangerie, at the square, etc. After a moment of thought, he takes his figurine and places it at the center of the square. Is it just him, or does the little thing look a little happier?

Ivan believes that he too would be happier out there in the sunshine; even if it was only for one day. It would be nice to be normal-looking if only for one day; to be amongst those blissfully unaware people. It is a day that he would treasure forever; a day that he would give anything for; do anything for! Just to live out there for once, instead of merely existing in the dark!

Do those people even realise how lucky they are? What a gift it is to simply _be_ them? Do they cherish their time together? Or even their time alone? Freely walking about, shouting at and scolding one another only to continue on as if their scuffles and troubles have never happened? Never constantly being reminded of who or what they are? Able to be "ordinary"?

"It's only one day..." Ivan mutters to himself. "Just one day and I promise to be content with my share of the sun." He adjusts his scarf and again rummages around for a disguise. "I won't be resentful of those people. I will try my best not to live in despair." With each word, Ivan feels his resolve strengthen a little more. "Even when I become an old man in here, I won't care! It would be worth it if I could spend just one day out there!"

* * *

**A/N: **You know, I have pored over this chapter many times and each time I changed something. Also each time I felt like I did not do the song/scene "_Out There_" justice. Then again, that scene was pretty epic to me and the artwork was a big part of that epicness...

I would like to thank everyone who has read, favourited, followed, and reviewed. Seriously, I appreciate it.

Again this chapter was not beta read and I am pretty nervous about it. So any reviews (even if they are pointing out mistakes and stuff) are welcome and will be greatly appreciated.


	3. Gypsies: Beggars, Artists, & Scapegoats

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**WARNING! **This chapter contains a hate word. I do not condone the use of hateful speech and the use of this word does not reflect my opinions.

* * *

_**Gypsies: Beggars, Artists, & Scapegoats...**_

It is one of the dirtier streets of the Île de la Cité, where the buildings and houses are crammed together and the cobblestones are rough and broken. Many horses are around. Many are kept here and the stench of urine and manure has been forever soaked into the structures. Even the people cannot rid themselves of the stink!

This is where three gypsies and a small cub make their stage.

The smallest of the trio, a little boy wearing no hosiery, dressed in an over-sized, greyish-blue, hand-me-down tunic with an old rope tied around his waist as a make-shift belt sits atop a brick wall. He turns this way and that as his ocean blue eyes scan over various townsfolk; keeping a look out for any guards. Below him the jovial sounds of an old end-blown flute, four padded paws, and a tambourine flows ahead into the putrid street. The tallest (and oldest) of the trio plays his less than perfect hardwood instrument while sitting on some stray boxes, pressing himself against the brick wall as much as he possibly can. Most of his body is concealed by a patched wool coat that unintentionally makes him blend into the shadows of the city. As his fingers slide over the holes, an exotic bear cub frolics about performing tricks in time to the jingle of a tambourine. But the bear is not the main attraction. Oh no! He draws people to the area; catching their attention with his spins, backflips, and somersaults. Men, women, and children are impressed by the training of the adorably odd bear but they stay (and pay) to see the tambourine player.

White peasant blouse falling a little off the shoulders...

Navy blue skirt daring to allow ankle nubs and a bit of the shins into the light of day...

Gaunt waist adorned by a pink cincher with golden-yellow trim...

A hip scarf, bright and blue, embellished with little golden baubles swish around curvy hips and a pert arse...

Golden jewelry flash against sun-kissed skin...

A garland of apple blossoms bounces along with honey blond locks...

The star of the show is a dancing gypsy boy. His exotic and (not _so_ intentionally) erotic moves mesmerize both men and women. His hypnotic hips amaze the crowd, persuading them to donate money to their collection plate: a slightly chewed purple flat cap with a button-charm of a red maple leaf stitched to it and placed on the ground. Only a few more to go and they would have enough for both lunch and dinner! They might even be able to treat their quadrupedal friend to a big fish; instead of just giving him scraps.

"Hey beautiful!" Unfortunately in such line of work, one occasionally comes across patrons who believe that enough money could earn them more than a show. "Why don't you come with me and actually earn some money?" A rough hand belonging to that rough voice reaches out and grabs the gypsy boy by his exposed arm and pulls him close.

The flutist cuts his eyes to the aroused dick. He expresses his protective feelings of disapproval by violently playing his instrument; the sharp notes shear their way across eardrums, forcing everyone to cover their ears.

Using the opportunity, the gypsy boy breaks away from the man and falls back to the safety of his brother. A glare fixes upon his usually happy face.

The patron sneers. "Rump-fed fag whore!'' He snorts. ''You're probably riddled with pox!" At those words, the crowd recedes; murmuring with one another about lewd gypsies spreading disease.

The youngest comes down from his perch and the brothers share a round of sad smiles and a hug before continuing with their performance. Another crowd will come; they always do...

Not too far from the gypsies, somewhere along the same malodorous street, a man shrouded in a dark cloak carefully weaves through traffic, pulling along a cream-coloured horse. He looks this way at that; his ice blue eyes darting from his map to his surroundings and grumbles as he runs his fingers through his slicked back, shining blond hair. After a few "hmm"s and "mmm"s he sighs in defeat, crumples the useless paper up, and tosses it away. "Pardon me, messieurs..." He waves to a couple of passing guards in hopes of getting their attention. "Could you point me in the direction of the Palais de Justice?"

Maybe it is because he is not dressed flashily? Maybe it is because he seems rather lax in comparison to his usual attitude of seriousness? Maybe it is because of some other third thing? But whatever the reason, the man is ignored by both guards; left in their dust with a twitching brow and a throbbing vein threatening to burst.

He takes a deep breath and marches along.

As he progresses up the road, music wafts onto his cochlea. The happy tune is not enough to completely free him of the morning's stresses, but it does induce a small smile and he is no longer feeling the need to wring someone's neck.

"Stay away, Mary!" A woman tugs her daughter's hand as she crosses the man's path. She looks back at where they were, her face contorted in disgust. "Those gypsies! They will probably rob us blind!"

He walks in the direction the woman has come from- the same direction of the music, stopping at the sight of a creamy-white bear cub jumping and twirling about. His eyes already cast downward on the odd bear, he notices a hat on the ground with some coins inside. Feeling particularly generous and grateful for the music, the man slips one hand inside his pocket and pulls out three sols. He tosses them into the hat, allowing them to join their metallic platoon. He looks up to see gypsies; no doubt the same gypsies that the now gone woman complained about. What he sees leaves him stricken with an acute case of stupidity! He is helplessly frozen on the spot at the sight of the dancing gypsy boy stepping gracefully in time to the simple song. The boy faces him, and he is greeted by a dazzling, perfect smile. The man blushes, his jaw drops, and instinctually, unintentionally, he stands at attention. He is so transfixed; who knows how long he would have stood there? His gaze never leaving the dancing gypsy, he does not notice the little boy sitting atop the wall, and jumps a little when the youngin emits a sudden, high-pitched whistle.

_**(!)**_

Panic erupts on the trio's faces. Even the bear looks a little anxious! The smallest scurries down the opposite side of the wall. The tallest leaps from his seat and runs down the intersecting road, towards a prediscussed rendezvous. The remaining gypsy, the tambourine boy, starts to run but stops at the distressed call from the bear. Scattered along the cobblestones are the valuable coins that he and his brothers worked so hard to collect. He dashes back to gather as much as he can; perfectly comfortable with sacrificing some in order to make a quick escape. Unfortunately, he is not quick enough.

"On your feet, _gypsy_."

Still adhered to his spot, the cloaked man watches as two guards, the same two guards who were too busy being unconcerned of his circumstance, roughly drag the performers off the ground. The wild-haired Danish guard hoists the bear by the scruff of its neck while the spiky-haired, stern looking, Dutch guard jerks the boy into a standing position; the force actually lifts the smaller male in the air for a few fractions of a second. With one hand he holds the dancer's wrists in a crushing grip, allowing the other hand to seize the coin containing hat. "Where did you get this money?"

"For your information, I earned it!" The gypsy wriggles and pulls to get away, but a barely fed boy is no match for a trained guard. Realising that his struggling is pointless, he tries explaining, "My brothers and I have been out here since dawn trying to earn enough to eat today!" The comments merit him a squeeze of his already sore wrists.

"Ha! Everyone knows that gypsies don't _earn_ money." The Danish guard says, unable to keep a controlled grip on the bear. "They steal it!"

"You would know a lot about stealing, wouldn't you?" The gypsy says, still trying to remove himself from the guard's grasp.

"Placing you in the stocks for a day ought to teach you a lesson."

**_"Yeow!"_**

Three pairs of eyes look to the Danish guard hollering and flailing his arm. At the end of his appendage is the very cub he has been trying to apprehend; its teeth sinking into his flesh. The comical and unexpected spectacle distracts the Dutch guard, causing his grip to loosen a little. It is enough for the gypsy though. With a well placed kick, the gypsy boy is free and able to snatch the hat and run.

Finally able to move, the cloaked man steps into the guards path, bringing his horse with him; effectively preventing the duo from pursuing the boy.

The guards however, did not appreciate that. In fact, the Dane pulls out a large axe seemingly from nowhere and directs it at the man saying, "Watch it peasant!"

The man reaches into his hilt and pulls out a shining sword. The action reveals the red, satin underside of his cloak and the golden armor of a respectable warrior. He smirks at the looks of shock and awe. "What was that, _lieutenant_?"

"Ah! C-Captain!" The guard laughs nervously and deftly tries to hide the large axe behind his back. "Sorry about that! I did not recognize you. Ha ha!"

The Captain puts his sword away and helps the second guard off the ground. In his most authoritative voice, he "_politely_" inquires of a route to the Palais de Justice.

* * *

The Palais de Justice, a grand structure connoting both a sense of regality and a sense of dread. It is not a very inviting place however, as is the case with most judicial centers. So it is not suprising to find the palace ground's completely devoid of life.

It is also not suprising to hear agonized screams should one enter the Palais of Justice; for this is where criminals and suspects are tortured, tried, and sentenced. So when the Captain hears shrieks following the snaps of a whip, he does not bother to acknowledge it. To him, it is the sound of Lady Justice righting her scales.

_SNAP! CRACK!  
S__NAP! CRACK!_

"Stop! Wait between lashes, otherwise the old sting will dull the new."

The Captain coughs; signaling his arrival to his new employer, Judge Arthur Kirkland.

The Judge turns to the sound of the intrusion. "Captain Ludwig, we meet at last. I am sorry for transferring you upon such short notice. I hope that the ordeal was not to jarring for you."

"I am here as you requested." Ludwig has never been one for small talk. His militaristic lifestyle never gave him time for such luxuries.

"Your service record is quite impressive. I expect nothing but the best from someone with your reputation, Ludwig."

"And you shall have it, Sir. I make it a habit to strive for efficiency and perfection." Ludwig stands at attention and, out of habit, gives a salute.

Arthur smiles. "At ease, Captain. Although I do admire your discipline; most of my men seem to have forgotten that we are in a war." Arthur leads the Captain out of the interrogation halls and onto the second story open corridor.

"War, Sir?"

"Of sorts, yes." Arthur stops. He looks over the railing and sneers at the people below. "Gypsies...Paris is at her darkest hour thanks to their breed. Their heathen ways entice the people to indulge in their basest instincts."

Ludwig gazes below, seeing the same dancer boy running through the streets. He shakes his head to prevent any distracting thoughts. "I am sorry but I do not understand what that has to do with me."

Arthur directs his attention to a few insects crawling on the cold stone. Insects are vermin. Vermin steal and spread diseases. It is his duty to be the exterminator; to keep himself and others clean and free from plagues. He glares at the repugnant creatures. "For the past twenty-three or four years, I have been taking care of the gypsy problem _one...by...one_." He squishes the bugs beneath his fingers; rubbing their guts into the slab. "And yet despite any advancements or progress I make, they have flourished." Arthur lifts up the slab to reveal an army of insects. "After conducting a thorough investigation, I have learnt that within the walls of this very city, there is a nest, if you will." He chuckles. "They call it the Court of Miracles."

Ludwig dares a quick glance to the gypsy boy below, but to his relief and disappointment, the boy is gone. "And what do you propose we do about it?"

Arthur smirks before slamming the slab back into place. The sound of scores of exoskeletons breaking is hard to miss.

Ludwig nods. "I understand, Sir."

"Good. You know, my last Captain of the Guard was a bit of a disappointment to me," Arthur looks back to the door they had come out of. After a small moment of silence, he turns back to Ludwig with a confident smile. "But I think we will get along just fine."

"Minister Kirkland," Cdr. Basch approaches and nods respectfully to his boss and superior officer. "We should leave now before the streets become congested."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "_Bollocks!..._Oh well, duty calls." He whispers to himself. "Have you ever attended a peasant festival, Captain?"

The ever serious Captain Ludwig answers. "Not since I was a child; and even then I never payed much attention."

"Then this should be an educational experience for you." Arthur gestures to the Captain and the two descend through the palace. "There is no need to rush. There really is not anything worth seeing or doing there."

* * *

_Step, step, step, step, step- turn...  
__Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._

Nervous fingers run through hair...

_Step, step, step, step, step- turn...  
Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._

Teeth chew on lips. The skin is about to break...

_Step, step, step, step, step- turn...  
Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._

"Ah! Where is he?!" A beautiful morning is coming to an end; leading into a beautiful afternoon. At the square in front of Notre Dame people have been setting up tents and attractions while enjoying as much good food and good company as they can afford. Technically the festival has yet to start but there is nothing stopping revelers from enjoying a fortune-telling, juggling, or balancing act. There is however, one young gypsy too busy worrying to even think about having fun. Not that he would be able to even if he were not worrying; for this year he is supposed to-

"_Mattie!_" Another gypsy, this one several years younger than the first, whines and tugs on the coat sleeve of his eldest brother. "I'm hungry. Can we eat now?"

Matthew stops his pacing and sighs. "Not yet, Peter. We need to wait for Alfred." One of the hardest parts about being the oldest of the siblings: deciding what is more important and what must wait "a little longer". Usually it is understood between the three of them that if they should separate, then they _must_ rendezvous under _le Petit Pont_; but today, instead of sticking to the same practice, Matthew agreed to change their meeting point to the square, where their tent would be. "'_It will save time,' _he says. Well how come I am _wasting_ time wondering about _him_?!"

_Step, step, step, step, step- turn...  
Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._

"Mattie, I-"

"Not now, Peter!"

_Step, step, step, step, step- turn...  
Step, step, step, step, step- turn..._

The sound of bare feet and padded paws slapping against rock echoes from a side street. It is not long until a chant of "Mattie! Mattie!" can be heard along with a faint jingling. Matthew spins around and sees his no-longer-a-baby brother rushing at him with flushed cheeks and a naïve smile. "Is he really that oblivious to the trouble he caused me?" In two, maybe three seconds, all three brothers would be reunited and embracing one another with back-breaking hugs; but to Matthew, it feels like seventeen years are flying by in the blink of an eye:

There is Alfred on that summer day of his birth. He was such a fussy baby...

There is Alfred at five, losing his first tooth...

There is Alfred at nine; holding a newborn Peter and trying hard not to cry as Matthew lays the only person who has ever loved them to rest...

There is Alfred at thirteen. He is not growing as much as he should, but that is okay; he will not have to worry about outgrowing his clothes...

There is Alfred at sixteen; face still smooth and beginning to attract more attention than usual...

Now here he is at seventeen, with his arms around his brothers. Somehow throughout time and everything they have been through, he still is not completely aware of the looks people give him: of the eyes that linger or the noses that bleed whenever he bends over...He is at _that_ age and they will need to talk soon, but for now, "Al! Where have you been? Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

"I'm hungry!"

"You are not helping, Peter." Matthew folds his arms and taps his foot impatiently as he waits for an answer. He tries his best to keep a reprehensive look of his face, but with his brothers, that is not a very easy thing to do.

Alfred, a dancing, cross-dressing, gypsy boy (probably the only one in existence) wrings the folded hat in his hands. "I'm sorry," he says. "I went back for this and got held up." He held out the old and wrinkled hat with a slight tremble in his hands, unable to look up at his brother.

Another hard thing about being the oldest: having to be the "understanding older brother" whilst being the "respectful and responsible parent". Matthew has had a hand in raising his brothers ever since he was five but he took on the full responsibility when he was fourteen; and he still has not mastered balancing "scolding" and "comforting". "Al..." he sighs. "I do not care about money. We could have gotten more."

"..."

"At least you had Kumajirou with you..." He sighs again. "How much did you get?"

"Not much...some deniers, maybe a sol or two."

Matthew takes his hat and gives back the coins. "Take them and take Peter." He lifts the boy and passes him to Alfred. The little runt squirms around and makes noisy protests but one hit to the backside later and he is biddable, though a little pouty. "Peter, stay quiet and cuddle with Alfred. Whine only if you need to. Al, do _not_ smile. If you look pitiful, you might be able to get more than you can afford."

Peter softly whines, "I am not a baby..." but wraps his arms around his brother anyway; nuzzling his face into the crook of Alfred's neck. It is a routine that they have used plenty of times before and they plan to use it as long as they can. It does not always work, but when you are a gypsy begging for money or food, it helps to look half-starved and helpless.

"The tent is set up, but I need to get your clothes from that Hungarian seamstress. Meet me at the tent when you are done. We will eat in there." Matthew kisses his brothers' foreheads. It is a loving gesture, a silent reminder to be safe, and an opportunity to communicate with one (Alfred) without scaring the other (Peter). "We need to talk."

"You're not mad at me, are you?"

Matthew knows he should quell his brother's fear (Alfred has never been comfortable with angering or disappointing someone important to him) but the look on his face is perfectly miserable and it _does_ help to look helpless..."Kuma, come!" At the command, the bear leaps into his arms. "I will see you two at the tent."

* * *

_Drums are rolling!_

_Trumpets are flaring!_

_The masses are cheering!_

_Paris shakes with thunderous applause!_

_The Feast of Fools is about to start!_

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you all so much for your comments, follows, and favourites. Really it means a lot to me. Once again this chapter was not beta'd so if there are any mistakes or something you just don't get, feel free to leave it in a review or PM me.

**Rump-fed:** I found two definitions for it (I googled medieval insults) One definition was ''as if growing from the rear end'' or something like that. I think that means something along the lines of ''a buttocks of the large(r) variety'' but I might be wrong.


	4. Charivari

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

* * *

_**Charivari...**_

After setting his ambition, Ivan has donned a pair of gloves and a large beige cloak with a hood. It is not a perfect disguise, but he knows that as long as he slouches a little, keeps his hood up, and keeps his scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth, he will be fine.

Sneaking out of the cathedral is not as easy as he had hoped though. Even though he is disguised, the clergy and whatever few parishioners there are in the building would not feel comfortable with seeing a such a bulky figure walking around; so Ivan still must slink through the shadows and climb along the edifice.

Shimmy down a column...

Slide down a buttress...

Scale down the statues...

It is of no inconvenience to Ivan. In fact, as he makes his way closer and closer to the ground, he wonders why he never thought to do this before.

Ivan stops for a moment due to the buzzing sounds below. Never before has he heard such hubbub! Not even at weddings! It is wonderful to hear such sounds though; the sounds of happy people and calm celebrations. Yes, _calm_ celebrations; for the Lord of Misrule has yet to appear and the festival will not truly begin without him! Ivan scans the crowd. Indeed there are jugglers and musicians and entertainment of all sorts, but never has he seen them with such detail. It is even more impressive now that he can count how many of what things are being juggled; four batons over here, six pens over there, and that one is juggling five colorful balls with one hand! The music is nice, it is not as beautiful as he thought it would be, but it does have a nice beat and the people dancing do look wonderful. Their steps look so much more complicated than he thought and it is amazing to see them all in sync with the rhythm yet conducting their own steps; only matching the movements of their partner or partners. There are some things he has never even heard of too; people balancing things on their heads and faces, men swallowing swords and eating fire! Those sorts of things are hard to see from his tower.

Ivan also decides to glance at the mystery play. He has always liked those, but it is a little hard to follow along when you cannot hear the dialogue. It would have been nice for Ivan to have finally seen one without such a nuisance ("_would have_" being the key words here) but that is not the case. For some unknown reason, there is no mystery play! The stage is set and there is a banner sign, "_L'un vers L'autre'',_ but no actors and no audience.

Ivan probably would have thought about that some more, but the drums are rolling and the trumpets are flaring. The crowd claps and cheers as it makes room for the people and carriages parading into the square. Hooded and dressed in black, the chorus walks in single file, waving their furled sails and banners as they chant to the crowd.

_Come one, come all!  
Leave your loops and milking stools.  
Coop the hens and pen the mules._

Ivan takes a deep breath and looks back to the bell tower. "It is only one afternoon," he tells himself. "One afternoon of sunshine and fete is certainly worth the risks." He leaps onto a line of bunting streamers and slides down to the post it is tied to. It so happens though that the next line he grabs is not as secure as it should have been, and Ivan uncontrollably swings over the party goers' heads...

_Come one, come all!  
Close the churches and the schools.  
Tis the day for breaking rules._

...and lands in front of the singing group.

_Come and join the feast of..._

"_Fools! Hahaha!_" A stubble-chinned man dressed so vividly and slightly eccentric, radiating an attitude to match slides from the garments betwixt a chorus man's legs. Such an air can only belong to the Lord of Misrule; and as he laughs, the sails unfurl and a thick fog of confetti bursts onto the atmosphere. Though the crowd share a round of laughs and smiles as they drink and dance, all Ivan can think of doing is getting away; getting out of this clearing and into the sea of constantly moving bodies where he could never possibly be noticed.

But the mock lord will have none of that! Francois has a show to put on; an audience to entertain; and nothing shall stand in his way! He grabs the closest person, some guy wearing a hood, and dances around with him.

_Once a year, we throw a party here in town.  
Once a year, we turn all of Paris upside down.  
Ev'ry man's a king, and ev'ry king's a clown.  
Once again, tis Topsy Turvy Day!_

Francois dances all over the place. There are plenty of creative performers and costumes around, but Francois only features the best of the best. After all, there is a reason he was chosen to head this party; but there is one person who does not seem quite right. A hooded man, the very one he twirled with before, does not seem to be enjoying the fun like everyone else; and Francois cannot help but think, "Well we can't have that now, can we?"

_Tis the day the devil in us gets released.  
Tis the day we mock the prig and judge the priest.  
Ev'rything is topsy turvy at the Feast of Fools!_

Could a festival cause stress? According to Ivan, yes. Never before has he been so nervous of someone seeing him! And though the disguise helps, he would still rather not draw any attention to himself. However, that sort of thing happens when the Lord of Misrule chases after you. Ivan hides behind a banner; _he_ is there to tear it away. Ivan runs into a small tent; it turns out to be a puppet theatre, and there _he_ is to make Ivan a part of the show. It also does not help that everywhere he turns, Ivan sees an amusing form a madness: dogs walking men, a horse with two rear ends, a lobster cooking a chef, and of course the beyond bizzare costumes intermingling with the normal folk! It is all such very strange scenery to take in, especially when he is running here and there without a chance to stop.

Ivan tries his luck with another tent. With its small size, there is no possible way multiple people could fit in there; and with everything happening out in the open, who would be hiding away in a tent? (other than himself of course) He only needs a minute or two to himself; the plan was to blend in with the revelers and take in the attractions, not throw himself into the center of chaos!

He runs inside, ready to sit down and take some deep breaths; but no! There he is again, the Lord of Misrule; and this time he has and army of scantily clad women! Somehow he manages to capture and drag Ivan in their chorus line course to a slightly larger tent!

_Dross is gold and weeds are a bouquet.  
That's the way on Topsy Turvy Day!_

It is all too much for Ivan and he needs to get out now! In his panic and need to breathe, along with his desperation to be as unnoticeable as possible (and lose that mock lord), Ivan tries to crawl backwards out of the tent (It is his only option since his arms were siezed by the women).

What he is not expecting though, is to step on his scarf, causing him to slip, trip, and tumble backwards thanks to his angle and momentum.

The world is turned upside down as Ivan falls head-over-heels into yet another tent. Ivan swings his arms, trying to find something to hold onto and gain his balance, but the only thing he can grasp is a bright red curtain. He faceplants onto the floor with the curtain over him and hears a high-pitched shriek; one that he assumes came from a woman that was behind said curtain.

Ivan fumbles around in the curtain. Though he cannot really see anyone, he hears enough noises to know that there is more than one person in the tent with him; and they are probably looking at him oddly. It is embarrassing to know that he has barged in a on a company of strangers, but when he hears a quiet "Put some clothes on!" from one of the mystery people, his face explodes into a plethora of pink.

As Ivan attempts to untangle himself, a wet, black nose pushes its way to his face. After a couple of sniffs, the creature attached to the nose growls and backs away. The little opening left behind allows Ivan to see two pairs of legs and a little animal. From the bare, smaller pair, he hears a childish voice say, "Hey! No free peeks! Pay up!" followed by a thwomping sound and a miserable "_Owww..._"

"Are you alright?" comes another voice; different than both the quiet one and the childish one. Ivan freezes as a hand reaches into his curtain cocoon. He chews his lip and there is a hitch in his breathing as the digits inch closer; only a hair away from touching him...

"I'm sorry!" Ivan throws the curtain off of him. He tries his best to scramble away, but he is surrounded on every side and there is no place to go. Nervously he tugs on the side of his hood; doing his best to make sure no one sees him. "I-I am so sorry..." he mutters. Ivan feels a pair of kind hands help him up; and, despite his objections, the same hands push down his hood. He waits for the inevitable scream, for someone to faint or get angry, for the torches and pitchforks but nothing happens.

"See, everything is perfect." Ivan looks at the owner of the voice and for the first time since landing in the square, he relaxes. Ivan is amazed to find himself in the presence of what must be God's most wonderful creation; but it is not the sky blue eyes, flawlessly smooth skin, honey coloured hair, or thinly veiled curves that causes a goofy grin to sprout on his face. Rather it is the honest smile and warm approach that puts him in such a disposition. In fact, he is so enamored with the beautiful stranger that he almost does not notice the gypsy ask, "You aren't hurt are you?"

"Uh, n-no. I- um- I..." As Ivan rambles nonsense to who must be the woman that was behind the now fallen curtain, he becomes vaguely aware of the other two occupants: a little boy holding his hand out, demanding payment and a young spectacled man holding the boy back, muttering something along the lines of "_this is_ _not a peep show._"

"Just try to be a little more careful, okay?" the gypsy says as they lead Ivan out of the tent. Ivan cannot bring himself to say anything, but he is very grateful that no one notices the blush on his scarred face. "By the way, great mask dude!"

As Ivan reenters the loud and crazy "topsy-turvy" festival once again, all he can think about is whether or not he would see that beautiful person again.

_Topsy Turvy!  
Beat the drums and blow the trumpets!_

_Topsy Turvy!  
Join the bums and thieves and strumpets!_

_Streaming in from Chartres to Calais  
Scurvy knaves are extra scurvy  
On the sixth of Januervy  
All because it's Topsy Turvy Day!_

* * *

After the Lord of Misrule's performance, the party tames somewhat; confetti is no longer exploding in everyone's faces, the costumes do not seem so crazy anymore, and Ivan no longer feels as if he is being chased. He spends about an hour or two doing the things he has dreamt of, like playing Dunk the Monk, eating delicious food for once, and he even danced a little (though it was against his will).

Of course he made sure to avoid Arthur's field of vision, which was a very hard thing to do; the both of them are watching the belated mystery play (It was hard to miss Arthur's dark carriage, dark clothes, and dark viewing tent). Well Ivan was trying to watch the play but no one is paying attention; and all of the noise and commotion made it hard to hear. The first character, apparently he has no name, recites a lengthy monologue and invites another character onto the sparsely decorated stage; but before the audience learns of his name, the Lord of Misrule appears and declares the mystery play over.

To be honest, Francois feels awful for cancelling the play. The story is a very good one; one of lovers finding each other and having a perfect night, only to never see each other again. However he did warn the playright, a cute boy that he looks out for every now and then, that it would be a little too high brow for the crowd. Under normal circumstance he might have told everyone to shutup and enjoy the romance but, having a job to do, Francois gathers the peoples' attention and introduces a one-of-a-kind act that is sure to please.

_Come one, come all!  
Hurry, hurry, here's your chance.  
See the myst'ry and romance._

_Come one, come all!  
See the finest person in all of France  
Make an entrance to entrance_

_Danse le bel Alfred  
Danse!_

On the last word, Francois disappears in a puff of red smoke, and Alfred appears in his place.

At first the audience is startled from the trick, but one moment later a collection of gasps and wolf whistles ring throughout the crowd. Everyone, even Minister Kirkland, stare in jaw-dropping astonishment at the beauty dancing before them.

Alfred struts and dances around, hitting his tambourine in time to the music.

Though Ivan has been taught that such activity is a sin, he finds himself hopelessly drawn to the twirling wonder; for this is the same person he stumbled upon ealier. Now however, this Alfred (Ivan twiddles with his scarf as he realizes that ''she'' is actually a ''he'') is wearing something much more risque. White fabric sewn with such a clever design; the bodice clings to his chest while the skirt flies as if out of free will, showing as much leg as possible, and a blue sash is wrapped around his hips, acting as a beacon to attract the eyes. But Ivan barely pays any attention to Alfred's shape (or to the crown of festive coloured flowers in his hair), it is the boy's face that captivate him: how he smiles so freely and innocently; how that smile seems to brighten when he turns in Ivan's direction; and is it his imagination, or is the gypsy boy looking at him?

In the shade of his tent, Arthur too finds himself mesmerized by the gypsy boy's hypnotic routine. His jaw drops, his eyes bulge from their sockets, and his eyebrows almost leap from his face! Arthur can feel a heat ignite deep inside his gut as his cheeks and ears redden. He shakes his head and reclines back into his seat. "Disgusting display..." he grumbles to himself, but the blush and the heat refuse to vanish.

Captain Ludwig had been busy posting guards, issuing orders, and surveying the area to pay attention to the provided entertainment; but at the sound of a tambourine, and with the fresh memory of a previously occurred event, Ludwig casts his obligations aside and turns to the sound. To his surprise, it is the same gypsy boy from the street sashaying his hips this way and that. He frowns in jealousy when the teen dances to his boss and cozies onto the Judge's lap.

More wolf whistles are heard when Alfred wraps his blue star-spangled scarf around Judge Kirkland's neck. It is a routine that he was told to use; _tease the Judge to please the crowd_. For good measure, he even caresses the old man's cheek and kisses his nose. As the tease reaches its climax, he pushes the gaffer away and leaps back to his stage. He sings the rest of the choreography in his head, proud to have come up with it all by himself, "Spin to the center! Stike a pose! Step here, twirl there! _Cartwheel_! Pose again so they do not know I am dizzy! Aaaaaand glide into a split!" As he throws his head back and smiles to the partying Parisians he notices that the man infront of him is the very same man that had crashed into his tent earlier. Mattie had been pretty mad about that...He winks to the man, knowing that it is him underneathe that hood and giggles when the man nervously turns away and pulls his hood further over the mask. Alfred cannot understand why he is trying to hide it; it is an awesome mask!

Oh well, there is no time to dwell on that anymore; now is time for the showstopper! In a stunt never performed before, Alfred grabs a spear from a solider (it is practically given to him) and plunges it into the wooden planks. "Jump! Aaand twirl!" Round and round he spins as he slides down the shaft. As he gets closer to the spear head, he curls one of his legs around the shaft and kicks the other into the air. He drapes along the stage floor before lifting himself up, arching his back and striking another pose as the music ends.

The performance was a tiring one and he had been nervous the entire time but as Alfred hears the cheers and as he and the stage are literally showered with sols and francs, he believes that the stress had been worth it.

* * *

There are a few more acts after Alfred's: a Greek gypsy showcases his trained cats (and then falls asleep on the stage), a girl with pigtails balances two swordfishes on her face, and a Spanish gypsy and a Portuguese gypsy juggle tomatoes before hitting each other with them; just to name a few. However, the only performance that comes close to having the same reaction as the first is a routine performed by a little gypsy boy with the help of his brother and a bear.

The boy divides his time playing a tambourine that signals the bear cub to perform counting tricks and conducting a series of acrobatic tricks. Although the tricks are impressive, the main reason people are paying attention is because the _lovely assistant_ is none other than Alfred, the dancing gypsy. The final trick is a disappearing act; in which a sheet was thrown over a the bear and then lifted to reveal empty space. When it is over, and as the audience claps, the borthers bow and the Lord of Misrule takes the stage once again. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the _pièce de résistance_..."

_Here it is, the moment you've been waiting for.  
Here it is, you know exactly what's in store.  
Now's the time we laugh until our sides get sore.  
Now's the time we crown the King of Fools!_

"I assume you all remember last year's King?"

People scream wildly as an Asian boy with an odd, happily looking curl is carried on some men's shoulders. Ivan looks confused about it though; he has never heard the rules in regards of choosing the "King of Fools" so he remains quiet as everyone else snickers, nudges, and winks at one another.

"Who here thinks that could top Yong Soo?"

_So make a face that's horrible and frightening.  
Make a face as gruesome as a gargoyle's wing.  
For the face that's ugliest will be the King of Fools!_

As the little boy throws confetti out to the crowd, men wearing masks climb onto the stage...

_Topsy Turvy!  
Ugly folks, forget your shyness!_

...but the only thing Ivan sees, is Alfred smiling as he offers his hand. Ivan is a little shocked and nervous, but he takes the hand anyway. He does not notice the disapproving glare coming from the older brother, or the growl from the reappeared bear cub, all he sees is Alfred giggling sweetly before dancing to the other side of the stage; where the line-up starts.

_Topsy Turvy!  
You could soon be called "Your Highness!"_

_Put your foulest features on display.  
Be the king of Topsy Turvy Day!_

One by one, Alfred and Matthew pull off the contestants' masks...

One by one, the audience is presented with ''ugly'' faces...

One by one, the face is answered with boos and hisses...

...and one by one, Peter and Kumajirou push the losers into a puddle of mud and piss below.

It is the end of the line and Ivan still is not sure exactly what is going on as, for the second time that day, the gypsies surround him. The smallest pulls down Ivan's scarf, the tallest removes Ivan's hood, but it is Alfred who places his hands on Ivan's horrific face. He tugs at the flesh, thinking it to merely be a mask, but when nothing gives, Alfred instenely examines Ivan before gasping and recoiling in shock! Ivan does not know what is worse: the symphony of gasps and screams coming from the Parisians at the sight of his pale and scarred skin, or the shameful feeling that pools in his gut as the tall gypsy drags his brothers (including the beautiful Alfred) away.

One lady delivers an eardrum shattering cry of, **_"MONSTER!" _**and promptly faints into her husband's arms.

There are more cries from random people; each adding to the pain and fear in Ivan's heart.

**_"That's no mask!"_**

**_"It's his face!"_**

**_"He's hideous!"_**

**_"It's the bell-ringer from Notre Dame!"_**

No one really knows what to do about the situation, even Judge Kirkland is speechless; angry but speechless. As for the guards...well, it is not as if there is an actual crime being commited...

Francois mumbles curses under his breath as he observes the stalemate. If the festival stops, he could lose money and could be blamed for this unexpected occurrence; and neither of those things would do. Realising his only option, Francois gathers everyone's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, do not panic. We asked for the ugliest face in all of Paris, and voila here he is: Ivan, the bell-ringer of Notre Dame!"

Arthur seethes in his seat as those depraved cretins laud that monster. How dare Ivan disobey him?! He would have to punish the insolent brat somehow. Ivan needs to learn such disobedience has consequences; "Spare the rod, spoil the child'' and whatnot.

Even with the change of attitude in the crowd, Ivan still has a confusing mix of emotions brewing inside. On one hand, he wants to run back to his tower and hide, but on the other hand, the hurt he felt makes him want to hurt other people, especially that cocky Lord of Misrule! And then there is that alluring gypsy, Alfred to consider. Did he plan this? Had his kindness been a clever ruse? Is he laughing at Ivan right now? Ivan is pretty sure that he will never know the answers to those questions, and he is also sure that it is not healthy to think about such things. So he smiles a hideous smile and makes the best of the situation. After all, it is hard to glower when you are given a crown, cape, and scepter; when girls are kissing your cheeks; and when people are cheering, singing, and praising you, even if it is something of a joke...

_And tis the day we do the things that we deplore  
On the other three hundred and sixty-four  
Once a year, we love to drop in  
Where the beer is never stoppin  
For the chance to pop some popinjay  
And pick a king who will put the "top" in  
Topsy Turvy Day!_

_Mad and crazy, upsy-daisy, Topsy Turvy Day!_

* * *

**A/N: **Once again, this chapter was not beta'd. So if there are any mistakes please let me know, I will fix them. I would like to thank everyone who has read and favourited/reviewed/followed. Seriously, you guys make me smile. So, what do you think of this chapter? What do you think is going to happen next? I hope you guys enjoyed reading this chapter and please review.


	5. La Sorciere

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

* * *

_**La Sorciere...**_

The apothecary business is not a very lively one. People come, they buy things, and then they leave. So when Kiku works a shift at the family shop, he spends most of his time cleaning. It is pretty boring, yet relaxing. Though he would much rather waste his time drawing, reading, or attending his plants, he knows it could be worse; at least he is not making deliveries with his brothers, Karou and Yong Soo. He shivers at the memory of those stressful days as an apprentice.

Occasionally something interesting does happen. Sometimes people need surgery and he can assist his father with those; and sometimes he goes with his sister to deliver a baby. But today must be a slow day...

"Kiku! Kiku! Come quick!"

...or not. "Hai! Is there an emergency?" Kiku grabs the medical bag, filled to the brim with everything one needs on these emergency trips.

Standing in the doorway is Mme. Elizabeta Eldenstien, a seamstress that he is familiar with. Kiku would never call them friends of course, for it is dangerous to be so close to a married woman; but she is a friend of his sister so the two of them do see each other and chat often. Though it has been more often ever since she "stumbled upon" a certain picture collection of his. Elizabeta waves her hand and shakes her head, too out of breath to speak at the moment. "No, but there will be if you do not come right away!"

Kiku allows her to drag him out of the shop, thinking it is probably another sewing incident. That apprentice of hers is rather accident prone.

To Kiku's surprise though, they do not go to her shop. He runs faster when he realizes that they are heading toward the cathedral square. He reasons that it must be a real emergency and not Felicia in need of a bandage. They stop at a bakery but instead of going inside, Elizabeta pulls him behind some crates and a barrel. "What are you doing? I thought there was an emergency!"

"There is!" Elizabeta peers over their make-shift barricade and into the shop ahead. "Emma cannot stall him forever!"

Kiku follows Elizabeta's gaze into a bakery where Emma, another woman he is familiar with, makes and sells breads and pastries. Inside with her though is the crossdressed gypsy boy who performed in the Feast of Fools some days ago. Kiku blushes and shakes nervously as he guesses what Elizabeta really wants him for.

"You see that guy?"

Kiku nods, having an idea where this is going.

"He has been coming here everyday since the festival!" she giggles. "Weeks ago, some guy brought in a dress for me to mend and alter but if I had known that _he_ would be wearing it..." Some drool creeps down her chin as various thoughts rush through her mind, "I would have made a few more _altercations_."

Kiku shivers at the way those words dribble into his ears. He definitely knows where this is going. "Please do not tell me that you want me to draw certain...pictures of him.'' The lecherous gleam in her eyes and smile is the only answer he needs. He sighs. "Very well. But if your husband finds out-"

"Ooh! Use him too!"

"...what?"

Elizabeta rolls her eyes and ignores the baffled look thrown her way. "You can use Roderich in the pictures too! You have seen him. You know what he looks like."

Kiku sputters as both his trembling and his blushing intensifies. "Wha- b-but- I- you...I cannot do that! It would be wrong!" He spazzes with embarrassment as images and sounds force their way into his brain. "So, so, very wrong..." Kiku is jostled from his episode when Elizabeta pushes him down and motions for him to crawl to the other side of the crates. They both watch Alfred, the gypsy boy, stroll across the square to the cathedral. The little boy in his arms munches on a bread roll along the way.

"So...?"

Exhausted and exasperated, Kiku replies to the silent question. "H-hai...You can pick them up tomorrow."

* * *

Everyday since the Feast of Fools, Alfred has been dancing at the cathedral square and yaoi obsessed women are not the only ones to notice...

In only one week, Captain Ludwig has changed the integrity of the King's Guards for the better. Instead of an unorganized mess of random guards wandering aimlessly about whenever and wherever they please (usually around taverns and whorehouses), guards are trained and treated as soldiers. They are assigned to report to given locations, patrol the area, make any necessary arrests and report any suspicious activity at the end of their shift. Even though Ludwig is Captain, he does not exclude himself from any assignments and even patrols in the Île de la Cité to remain close to the Palais de Justice. After all, it is an efficient way to make the most of his position. As he makes his rounds, Ludwig keeps an eye on the newer recruits, he observes the progress and payoff of his new system while taking mental notes of any flaws, he offers assistance to those in need and keeps a look out for crimes and suspicious activity, all while keeping a short distance away from Minister Kirkland; ready to report to him if or when he needs to.

At this particular moment, Ludwig is at the Notre Dame square, where he has been known to eat his modest midday meal. It is an effective way to both meet his basic needs and continue working. Here at the square, Ludwig can watch over the law-abiding citizens of Paris and allow both himself and his horse a few moments of rest, while enjoying a humble wurst, a bite of cheese, and a tankard of beer courtesy of a nearby public house.

But the _real_ reason this golden guard chooses to spend his afternoons at the square is not for convenience or out of coincidence. Ludwig comes here to carry out his self-imposed mission: to see and maybe perhaps meet the mysterious gypsy boy (whose name he had been to busy doing his job at the festival to hear) who dances before Notre Dame.

Ludwig would rather not admit it, but the boy stirs feelings within him...

Feelings that are confusing and somewhat distracting...

Feelings that churn as Ludwig watches the gypsy boy speak with a bespectacled gypsy...

It is absurd to believe that initiating a simple meeting, and under such conditions, would take over a week to accomplish. And in the eyes of a battle-hardend soldier like Ludwig, such incompetence is deserving of a demerit and a demotion! Nevertheless, every time Ludwig tries to approach the gypsy boy, something comes up. It is as if fate is actively trying to keep the two apart! But Ludwig has stared down fate many times before and has always refused to willingly go along with her schemes should they interfere with his own wills. So as the gypsy boy twirls his skirt and shakes his tambourine in accompaniment to the other gypsy's flute, Ludwig steels his resolve and marches towards the gypsies-

"Stop! Thief!"

-only to be intercepted by a law-breaker.

Damn fate! She saw him going for the beautiful mystery and literally threw a criminal in his path. One step and _BAM!_ a shabby man with dark hair and fair skin crashes into him. Unable to stand after his impact with the Captain's armor, the man collapses onto the cobblestones, landing at the feet of both Ludwig and his pursuer. "Captain..." the pursuer wheezes out. "Th-this man- this _gypsy-_" he hisses the last word, narrowing his eyes at the quivering man on the ground, "has stolen from me! There I was, just minding my own business, when this _thieving_ _rat_ cut my change purse from my belt!"

"I did no such thing!" the man says in what sounds like a Bulgarian accent. "This purse is my own! I never went near him!" The man stays on the ground, hunched over in a trembling bow as his head shakes from side to side to further indicate his innocence. "The purse was a gift and I have earned every coin inside!"

"Liar!"

Ludwig steps between the two men to prevent a fight from breaking out but the commotion has attracted a number of spectators and Ludwig's authority is lost amongst the shouts and shoves.

"What's going on here?!" The crowd calms down as a dark carriage stops onto the scene. Its occupant, Judge Arthur Kirkland, leans out and looks down on the people before turning to his coachman. "Why have we stopped?" he demands. Though he expects an answer from his coachman, the only person bold enough to speak to him is his Captain of the Guard.

"An altercation, sir." Ludwig brings both men forward for his boss to see. "There is a dispute over the rightful ownership of a change purse. I think the best course of action would be an interrogation, sir...Sir?" Ludwig lifts a brow at his boss who is staring wide-eyed at something in the distance. Ludwig clears his throat. "Sir?!" He asks a little louder, trying to gain his attention.

"Oh! Um..." Arthur clutches the fabric over his chest and refocuses on the problem before him. "Arrest them! Take them both to the Palais de Justice." Arthur commands. He scoffs at the gypsy. "_That_ one probably is the liar and thief but they are both guilty of fighting and disrupting order therefore, both of them should be punished."

"And the money, sir?"

"Donate it to the church." Arthur says. "It would serve better in the hands of God than in their rakish grasp."

"Yes sir." Ludwig salutes his boss and whistles to his horse. With no other guards around, he would need to restrain the crying men to his horse's saddle, that is, until he finds some guards to help him out. Ludwig looks back to the gypsy boy still standing on the steps of Notre Dame and groans. "Damn fate..." Oh well, maybe tomorrow Ludwig would be able to speak with him.

* * *

Everyday since the Feast of Fools, Alfred has been dancing at the cathedral square and a confused, enamoured, slightly-in-denial guard is not the only one to notice...

Arthur clutches at his chest and breathes deeply as the carriage continues forth but he is barely able to control his shaky breath. His bones rattle in his sweat-coated skin, and his heart flips and flutters! Seconds pass as hours in that stifling hot box and all Arthur has to signify that he is in fact moving forward are the now very noticeable jolts of the carriage as he passes over pebbles and broken stones. But just as he is ready to tear his hair out, leap onto the street and go on foot to Notre Dame, his destination, the carriage stops and a gruff, "We are here, Monsieur," comes from the coachman. Suddenly Arthur feels as if it is too soon the be there. Nevertheless, Arthur smoothes his clothes out, fixes his face into his usual sanctimonious scowl, grabs his basket, and steps out into the refreshingly cool air, only to see the very person that has been haunting him for days.

Arthur's hand instinctively clutches at the fabrics over his chest, grasping onto the sacred trinket underneath, as he takes notice of the pagan dance. Do not dare to think that the righteous Judge's eyes would _linger_! Of course they would not! But in his observings, as one cannot help but to observe as they walk by, Arthur is met with a cautious glare from the flute playing gypsy who is without a doubt in cahoots with that slut of a gypsy, Alfred.

Silently however, he thanks the dirty little urchin for the glare. For such blatant insolence has broken through his trance and given him the chance to finally enter into Notre Dame.

"Buongiorno, Minister Kirkland!"

Despite all of the years that they have known each other, Arthur has never been able to tolerate Father Feliciano for very long. It is mostly because, in Arthur's opinion, a man of Felicioano's position and age, with silver hairs peeking and wrinkles starting to form, should not be so daft and gluttonous. "Good afternoon, Father Feliciano." Arthur says with a respectful and mostly sincere nod. As a parishioner opens the door to come inside, gypsy music and a few cheers accompanies him and Arthur once again clutches at his chest. "Father, are you aware of the heathenish performance that has been plaguing your steps this past week?"

"Ve~?" Father Feliciano tilts his head in thought. After a moment, he smiles and claps his hands. "Ah! You mean the music!" He says. "It is nice, yes? And everyone loves it! It is wonderful to see so many happy faces. Ve~! Do you think Romano would like the music? He is usually outside tending to his little tomato garden but-"

"Excuse me, Father," Arthur interrupts, knowing that if he does not stop the conversation now, it probably would last until the late hours of night. "Forgive me for cutting our chat short but I really must be going." Arthur gestures to the staircase to emphasize his point. Father Feliciano nods in understanding but shivers slightly as he remembers where- or more specifically, to whom- those stairs lead to.

"I-I understand. Would you be staying for dinner? Tonight, we are having pasta~!"

"Thank you for the offer, but I must decline. I have a- um...previous engagement." Arthur makes his way up the winding stone steps. He clutches at his chest again, his nails lightly scraping at his skin beneath his clothes, as he thinks about said "engagement". Preoccupied with his thoughts, Arthur's feet lead him to the bell tower.

For the past week, Arthur has been bringing his mischievous monster food prepared with far less care than usual. The coal-like texture and stomach aches the overgrown savage would be sure to get has been a sufficient punishment in Arthur's eyes, but today will be different. "Good afternoon, Ivan." Arthur smirks as Ivan jumps at the sound of his voice.

Ivan mumbles out a, "Hello master," and starts fidgeting with the tassels of his scarf. His voice comes out hoarser than he expects thanks to his past meals. Ivan shudders at the sight of the basket being placed on his table, but to his surprise, instead of smoldering rocks, the basket is filled with charred (but edible) bread, bramble berries, and a slice of slightly overripe brie. "Thank you, master! Thank you!" Ivan gasps out.

Arthur leaves Ivan to his meal. He looks outside to the dancing figure below and sneers. Arthur's fingers twitch at his side as he tries to ignore the sudden weight of the trinket and the warm feeling pooling in his gut. He breathes deeply through his nose and tries to keep the quiver out of his voice as he asks, "Ivan...do you know of the gypsy- that _gutter trash_ downstairs?" The coughing and choking sounds behind him tells Arthur what he needs to know, but Ivan still answers.

"H-he danced at the festival and...and he dances at the square."

Arthur nods along and takes another breath. "...And do you look upon him? Upon that barefoot _bitch_?" he hisses out.

"..." Ivan trembles in his seat and clumsily fiddles with scarf again. His mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out.

Arthur turns sharply to glare heatedly into startled eyes of violet. "To look at him is a mortal sin! That witch! He poisons the hearts and souls of the disciples of Notre Dame with his lecherous ways." Arthur takes a few breaths to calm himself and clutches at the now searing hot trinket still lying under his robes. "He ought to be imprisoned," he mutters. "In fact..." Arthur drops his voice to a whisper. He is well aware of their privacy but secret words have a tendency to echo about and what Arthur says should not reach anyone else's ears. "Tonight you will seek him. You will chase him in the alleys and bring him to _La Conciergerie_. There, I will lock him away and teach him the only true religion of Christ and the Holy Mother." Arthur pets Ivan and smiles as he leans into the touch. "If I can bring your savagery under control, then by the grace of God, I am certain I can tame this wanton." Arthur takes his hand away from the flaxen locks and turns away. Again, he takes silent deep breaths and tries to keep his passions under control.

Ivan however mistakes his master's sudden deviation as a sign of repulsion and rejection. In a panic, Ivan leaps up from his seat and genuflects in servility. "Anything you ask of me I will do." Ivan desperately reaches up to clutch at the familiar dark and velvety robes. This past week has been particularly torturous to him; being regarded with critical, accusatory glares and harsh silence, Ivan thought he would go mad with the lack of contact! After all, he is already isolated from society; even though he has been crowned, paraded, and celebrated as the King of Fools, Ivan is not foolish enough to hope that people would welcome him with open arms. Even those Italian priests, who have known him since his days of boyhood, keep themselves from his company; so Ivan does not expect better from the bleating masses they attend to. However, should his master distance himself, take away what little connection to humanity he has, Ivan's heart would surely grow heavy with sorrow and fall right out of his chest! "Anything and everything for you! You who named me and fed me- the orphan abandoned by parents, who were ashamed to have brought a monster into this world- you who watched me grow and suffer, who offered me sanctuary and gave my wretched existence purpose by allowing me to ring the beautiful bells!" Ivan drops to both knees and lowers himself further to the floor. He continues, "You taught me how to speak and even now teach me to read and write, even though you could have kept me in chains like the animal I am! For everything you have done, I belong to you even to the depths of my soul and just as a dog obeys its master, I will do anything you ask of me."

Arthur tenderly pets his monster again; a satisfied smile resting upon his lips. "I expect nothing less of you, Ivan. Do _not_ disappoint me."

* * *

**A/N: **Well, that's chapter 5. I would like to take this moment to say that Matthew is the "bespectacled gypsy". I don't think I mentioned that he wears glasses before, so I'm sorry if I threw someone off.

Just so you know,_ La Conciergerie _is the prison portion of the Palais de Justice in Paris, France. Also, Emma is Belgium and Felicia is Fem!Italy.

So, what do you guys think? Be honest, did you see this coming? Were you expecting something else? Are you excited about this turn of events? Your thoughts and opinions really do matter to me, so do not forget to leave a review.

Thank you for reading and I would like to give a special "Thank you! :)" to everyone who has favourited, followed, and reviewed so far. You guys are awesome! If I could, I would give you guys snickerdoodles.


	6. The Streets of Paris

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing and if this chapter is similar to Kats With Shamrocks' story...then what were you reading?

* * *

_**The Streets of Paris...**_

As the sun sinks lower into the sky, covering Paris in a veil of angry red, the crowds drastically thin out. Shops close and families gather in houses of wood, wattle and daub to partake in prayer and an evening meal. The more ignoble rabble visit alehouses, gather in alleyways, and slink into suspicious houses adorned with red lanterns; where they will spend the better portion of the night. A fog creeps along the ground, giving the city an eerie look. It is another night in Paris.

At the moment, three gypsy brothers make their way through the dimly lit streets while enjoying a late dinner. They walk quickly but chew slowly on their meager meal of meat and bread; savouring the delicious taste and the infrequently experienced feeling of having warm and full bellies. Meandering between their legs, Kumajirou eats the precious pieces that fall from the brothers' faces. The trio chat and joke with one another as brothers often do. Peter bounces here and there, dancing circles around the older members of their little family. "That was delicious!" he says after finishing the last of his meat and bread. "The best we've had since forever! I want to eat like that everyday!"

Matthew and Alfred share a look. Alfred reaches out for Matthew's hand and gives it a firm squeeze but the reassuring gesture does nothing to brighten Matthew's dark and weary eyes. Turning to his energetic younger brother, Alfred forces a carefree smile onto his face. "Hey Peter, do you want to see Kumajirou do a trick?" Alfred breaks off a piece of dangling meat and waves it around; gaining the attention of both his younger brother and the bear cub.

"Oh! I want to do it! I want to do it!" In his excitement, Peter does not even wait to be handed the meaty treat. Instead, he latches onto his brother's arm and pries the prize from the slackened hand. He then unties the tambourine from Alfred's hip. He drops it a few times; each crash on the ground rattles the zils and dirties the drumhead but eventually Peter gets a firm enough grasp on the frame. "Kuma! Kuma! I need you to jump for me alright." Peter strikes the tambourine once, twice, thrice and then shakes it in the air. Kumajirou stares at him nonchalantly. "Come on Kuma. Jump!" He strikes the tambourine three times again and shakes it in the air. Again, Kumajirou does not respond. Frustrated, Peter puffs out his cheeks. On his third time trying to convince Kumajirou to perform a trick, he does not even bother with striking the tambourine and instead shakes it while crying, "Jump Kuma! Jump!" And once again, Kumajirou does not follow through with the command. Instead, he topples Peter over and licks the treat right from the little boy's fingers. "Kuma, get off of me! Stop laughing you guys!" Peter wriggles under Kumajirou. Fortunately, he does not have to wait long for Matthew to lift the bear cub off of him; and when he is able to get back onto his feet, he throws the tambourine at Alfred. "How come he won't jump?" he asks with a pout.

"He is probably tired." Matthew says with Kumajirou in his arms. "Maybe you should hold off on the tricks untill tomorrow."

"He is not the only one who is tired." Alfred halts his steps and scoops a yawning Peter into his arms.

Peter tries to argue that he is fine and able to walk the rest of the way home but his grumbled slur of, "'Mmm nah tiiiire..." does not fool anyone.

Matthew sighs. "If you say so, Peter." Despite Peter's assurances that he is in fact wide awake, the youngest gypsy brother quickly falls asleep in the warm, apple-scented embrace. There is a brief silence as the older brothers carry on; both slightly weighed down by their cuddling cargo. It is not long untill they reach Petit Pont, the half-way mark of their commute. "Am I really _that _bad?" Matthew asks. The question is a rhetorical one and only slips out through his lips because he is too tired to be mindful of what he says, but Alfred does not figure that out.

"Bad?...with what?"

Matthew sighs. "Nevermind...tis nothing. Forget that I even said anything."

"No, really Mattie...bad with what?" Alfred hastens his pace in order to keep up with Matthew's slightly longer strides. Matthew glances back to Alfred. He opens his mouth, "..." and ultimately closes it. He notices a strange movement some distance away- a fluttering of fabric- as what appears to be a large shadowy figure dashes into an alleyway. After observing the suspicious motion, Matthew turns back around and quickly leads Alfred across the rest of the bridge. "Mattie, answer me." It- whatever it is- could be nothing at all. Then again, murders and muggings are known to occur at such an hour and such concerns are strong enough to make Matthew put aside any feelings that came from Peter's careless yet honest comments regarding his inability to be a provider. Instead, as a low growl from Kumajirou wafts into his ears, an overwhelming sense of dread fills him, driving him to grab Alfred's hand and run. "Mattie, slow down! What the hell is going on? Why are we running? Why are you-"

"Alfred! Just shut your mouth and run!"

Of course the commotion wakes up Peter, who immediately jostles himself from his brother's hold; which causes Alfred to stop running and help Peter to his feet; which causes Matthew to stop running and turn back to help his brothers. Kumajirou growls louder into the fog. Fearing that something is coming and that they have wasted too much time, Matthew rushes his brothers into an alley. "Shh!" he commands.

"What's out there? What are we running from? What-"

"Shh!" Matthew cuts Alfred off.

"But Matt-"

"Shh!"

"Mattie! My knees hurt!" Peter cries.

"Shhhhhh!" Matthew covers Peter's mouth to muffle his cries. He looks down at the boys knees and indeed they are splattered with sticky crimson and specks of dirt.

"You will be fine Peter." Alfred reaches out to bring Peter into his arms. He looks up at Matthew and smiles a worried yet understanding smile. "Everything will be fine."

Matthew reaches into his coat and pulls out a leather canteen. "Clean his knees," he says while passing the canteen. "Stay quiet and stay hidden. I will be back in a moment."

"But Matt-"

"Stay quiet and stay hidden." Matthew repeats. His voice may be soft and hard to hear, but he speaks with such unyielding confidence and authority that neither brother can bring themselves to even think of disobeying him. Matthew kisses his brothers' foreheads. "If I have not returned within fifteen minutes after you finish," he whispers, "you are to take Peter and go home."

"But-"

"Do not question me, Alfred." Matthew bends down to Peter's level. "You be sure to stay with Alfred and do what he says."

Peter huffs and nods in the manner he knows that obedient little boys are supposed to nod. He looks up into his brother's eyes and asks what he considers a very serious question. "Mattie, when we get home, could you tell me a bedtime story?"

Matthew sighs and ruffles Peter's hair affectionately. "Of course." Matthew looks down at the fuzzy, four-legged family member nuzzling against his legs. Even Kumajirou is pleading for him to stay. Matthew will have none of that though. "Kuma, stop that." Kumajirou continues to wind through Matthews legs. "No Kuma! Stay!" At the command, Kumajirou walks back to the younger brothers. Peter hugs the bear cub as Alfred pours water onto his scraped and bruised knees. Matthew stealthily slips out of the alleyway and spares one last look at his brothers as an ominous feeling suddenly washes over him. He shivers. "Tis probably nothing."

* * *

"But Mattie said-"

"I know what he said!" Alfred drags Peter down the street. "But we need to go home and I would like to get there _before_ the witching hour!"

"But what about Mattie? We need to go back for him! We need to look for him! We need to- Hey!" Alfred picks up Peter and hold him close. As he squirms and flails his little limbs, Alfred tightens his hold. Alfred ignores what he hopes are unintentional hits and whines of, "Put me down! Put me down!" and continues the path home as quickly as possible. He keeps telling himself that everything will be fine; that Matthew could very well already be home and waiting for them. After all, though he has no means to keep track of time, Alfred is certain that he waited much longer than fifteen minutes to leave that alley. Also, unlike Alfred, Matthew does not have a rowdy eight-year-old weighing him down_._ Even if Matthew is not home yet, they will probably see him the morning. Then they could all have a big laugh about how they freaked out over nothing; and then they would all agree to _never_ stay out so late again!

It takes a while but Alfred notices something odd. Peter has gone silent and still! It is neither the limp stillness of slumber accompanied with deep and gentle breaths nor the relaxed position of boredom or contentment. Rather, it is a rigid stillness and a deathly silence. The only indication that Peter is not completely lost to the realm of the living is the slight yet increasing pain and pressure of ten little fingernails digging into Alfred's skin. "Peter, are you all right?" Alfred lets his baby brother down. The poor boy has become a sickly pale color, his breathing is short and shaky, and his wide eyes are focused on something in the distance. Alfred laughs nervously. "Peter, is something wrong? Stop freaking me out! You're acting as if you have just seen a-" Kumajirou bares his fangs and growls in the same direction Peter is staring in. Alfred slowly turns around; silently wishing on every star in the sky for whatever it is behind him to be something not too dangerous. "Please not a rabid dog..." he whispers to himself. Not too far in the distance, there stands a large, shadowy figure. The fog gives the being a mystical appearance. It has a strange way of moving. It gimps stiffly yet its steps make no noise! It moves as if it is a cursed creature from a grave! Or worse, as if it is a- **_"GHOOOOST!"_**Alfred picks Peter back up and runs; screaming into the night. Blinded by terror, Alfred makes turn after turn after turn; not entirely sure of where he is going or where he has been. He is only aware of the cries of Kumajirou and Peter to go faster. His own heart even pleads for swiftness he cannot deliver! Oh! If only he could sprout wings and fly! Then he would carry everyone to safety; like a hero! But Alfred is not a hero from a bedtime story. He is only a dancer and this is the real world. And in the real world, scenarios like this one usually do not end favourably.

It is not long before Alfred makes a foolish mistake. He turns into roadway that leads to a dead-end. He goes as far as he can, but there is nothing. No door to go through, no fence to climb over, no crevice to crawl through, not even a crate or a barrel to hide in. Alfred presses himself into a corner and slides to the ground, hoping to stay hidden in the darkness. Who knows?! Maybe the _thing _will not see them. It might not even be interested in them; Alfred is sure that neither he nor his brothers have spoken against any spirit or seriously transgressed against anyone. Then again, many spirits do not need a reason to harass people.

"Alfie, I'm scared!" Peter hiccups into his brother's neck. He wraps his arms tighter around his brother and sobs uncontrollably.

Alfred tightens his hold on Peter as well. The night air makes Peter's mixture of hot tears and slobber freeze on Alfred's skin and he shudders. "It will be fine." Alfred whispers with a quiver in his voice and a tremble in his smile. He gently presses a kiss to Peter's hair and rocks back and forth a little bit. "Everything will be fine."

Not even a moment passes before the shadowed creature from before staggers into their hiding spot. It looms closer; blocking out more and more light, diminishing more and more hope with each step it takes. Fear consumes Alfred as it stands over him. His breath becomes hitched as lifeless eyes of violet bore into his own. The next few moments flow slowly like a viscous sap. Big, strong hands swoop downward. One snatches Peter, ripping him away from Alfred's arms. The other snatches Kumajirou, lifting him from his defensive stance infront of the brothers. The creature drops the struggling younglings behind itself. "Peter!" Alfred tries to rush to his brother's aid, but the creature traps him in its arms. It hefts him up effortlessly. "No! Put me down! Put me down!" The creature hooks one arm around the underside of Alfred's knees and uses the other to keep Alfred bent over one of its broad shoulders. The being ignores the pounding of Alfred's fists and feet.

"Stop, you monster!" Peter pinwheels his arms, causing his little fists to repeatedly slam miserably on the large creature. At the same time, Kumajirou snaps at the being's ankles. "Let go of him you dummy! Dummy! Dummy! Dummy!" The creature mildly pushes Peter away from itself and dashes away. After recovering from his tumble, Peter and Kumajirou get up and chase after the creature. All sorts of scary stories race through Peter's imagination as his brother fades further and further into the eerie fog. He runs as fast as his scrawny little legs will allow, but since when did little boys outrun monsters?

Soon, Peter is no longer able to see Alfred...

Not long after that, Peter realizes that he is no longer able hear Alfred either...

A sudden and horrifying realization hits Peter far worse than Matthew ever did! Peter is all _alone_...Never before has Peter been alone; not like this! One or both of his brothers were always nearby; always! Even whenever he wandered off or got lost, they were always close by and ready to scold or comfort him. Every emotion understood and unexplored seep out of Peter, leaving in him a hollowness far scarier and far more intense than any hunger ever could. Tears spill over his cheeks again. He collapses onto the ground and caves in on himself; curling up to become as small as possible. Unfortunately, this makes him cry even more. His little body quakes with sobs as his confused mind keeps saying, _"Cry more, they will come...Cry more, they will hear you.." _but no one comes. No arms envelop him! There is no burly wool coat to snuggle safely into! There is no skirt or hip scarf to dry is tears on! No words are spoken! No kisses are given! There is nothing but the pain, loss, and-

**_"Wahh! WAAH!"_**

Peter lifts his head. He knows that weird crying sound. It is Kumajirou! The bear cub, though usually silent, does wail like a baby sometimes. Matthew always would say that it meant he was "distressed"...whatever that means. Peter wipes tears and snot on his sleeve as he picks himself up and stumbles still bleary-eyed over to Kumajirou.

_**"Wahh! WAAH!"**_

"I'm afraid too Kuma." Peter says miserably. He jumps a little when his foot lands something other than stone; something soft and warm. He lifts his foot and sees a familiar looking white and pinkish star. He gingerly picks it up and brings it closer to his face. "A flower?" He sniffs it. Memories of weaving wreaths, of being swaddled in bright blue, and of sleeping in peaceful happiness between two entities that in secret he still calls "Father Brother" and "Mother Brother" fill his no longer hollow body.

An idea forms!

"Kuma! Kuma!" Peter shoves the flower infront of Kumajirou's nose. Peter knows that Matthew has trained Kumajirou to find at least _him_. How else would his brothers be able to find him so quickly on bath day? "I need you to find _this_." He says, pointing to the flattened blossom. Kumajirou climbs on Peter and licks the boys face. "Not me!" He pushes Kumajirou off and waves the flower infront of him again. "Find this! Find Alfred!"

Kumajirou sniffs about and runs ahead with Peter following. Pretty soon they find another fallen apple blossom. Not long after that, they find another and then another. Peter picks up the flowers along the trail, knowing that each one leads him closer and closer to Alfred. "Mattie told me to stay with him. If he finds out that we got separated..." Peter does not want to think about the spanking he would receive if Matthew _ever _found out.

As they run off to find the eighth flower, Peter crashes into a pair of tall, sturdy legs...

* * *

"Help! Help!" Alfred screams and thrashes increase with each jarring step his captor takes. "Put me down!" Alfred has heard many frightful stories of people disappearing or crossing over into the world of spirits. Their mother used to tell him and Matthew about the monsters that took away children who did not listen to their parents. Those kind of stories would give Alfred nightmares and never let him sleep, but Matthew would always say that they were only stories and if they bother him so much, then he should not ask to hear them. "Put me down! Please put me down!" Alfred silently scolds himself for his pathetic behaviour this night. Really, who runs away and cowers in such a ridiculous place?! He should have kept calm and taken Peter to a safer area. He should have looked for Matthew and brought him to a safer place too. But no, he did not think and now he is being whisked away! This must be the spirits punishing him for being a horrible brother. "Help! Help!"

Harken! In the distance there is a sound. A sound like drums and thunder and it grows louder and louder. "Halt!" A voice deep and unchallenging bellows. "Unhand that maiden!" Alfred's face flushes in embarrassment. He sways when his captor skids to a stop. Alfred sees several guards surround them. Many arms reach out to grab at him and his assailant; none of them very gently by the way. One arm wraps around Alfred's waist and once again he is hoisted into the air. This time however, he is seated upon a proud and powerful steed. "Arrest him!" The voice speaks again. Alfred shudders at the thought of being taken away, but he relaxes when he notices that no one is bothering with him. Most of the guards wrestle below with the creature. It fights back but is eventually overpowered and hauled away.

Only one guard remains behind; the guard who actually rescued him. "_Like a __hero_." Alfred tells himself. "Thank you, monsieur." Alfred looks up to the face of the courageous knight. In stunned silence, he marvels at the man who looks every bit like a hero from a story: brave, bold, undaunting, straightforward, firmly rooted in the ways of justice, and of course, handsome. Alfred stiffens as those last words course through his mind. He hides the burning shame of his cheeks by lowering his head, turning away, and pressing his palm to his face.

"Is something wrong?" The knight asks him. "You are trembling."

"I..." Alfred does not know what to say. That he was scared? Because he wasn't! He was _not _scared. He was just...worried. Yeah, worried. And why would he not be worried?! He had been snatched up by some night phantom and taken away from his brothers. Oh no! His brothers! What happened to Matthew? Where is Peter? They are probably alone and scared- no worried too! And even though Peter has Kumajirou with him, a bear cub is not the same as a hero! This is his chance to prove to the spirits that he is not useless, foolish, or selfish. This is his chance to prove that he can be awesome and capable like Matthew. First though, he needs to answer his saviour. Now if only his mind and mouth could work together...

"Are you hurt? Can you speak?" The knight asks. Alfred feels a nice, warm hand, presumably belonging to the valiant knight, curl under his lower jaw. The thumb and forefinger grasp his chin as the remaining fingers brush across the flesh of his throat. His face is turned back to the knight's but Alfred cannot yet bring himself to lower his palm. "My name is Captain Beilschmidt." Alfred hears the knight say. "I understand if you do not trust men of my position. However, you should know that in my presence, the innocent have nothing to-"

"I AM NOT A WOMAN!" Alfred removes his hand from his face and immediately regrets it. Greeting him are two intense eyes of wonderful blue, filled with promises Alfred knows he must be imagining. "I-I'm sorry!" He dismounts rather ungracefully from the horse and flees from the awkward moment. "There is no time to waste!" Alfred tells himself and he sprints in the direction he came from in hopes of finding his brothers.

Behind him, Alfred unknowingly leaves behind a flustered and red-faced captain...

* * *

In the dark, cold, and lonely night, wails and moans resound throughout the mostly empty halls of the Conciergerie. Most come from the derelict and forlorn dwellers in the dark; their voices raw and lifeless as they slowly wither away.

Of course, the hopeless tune of awaited death is at times drowned out by the ballad of justice: a melody and harmony of strong bodies furnished with warm meats shifting about in a series of correlated movements; a chord of voices play periodically; a percussion of armour and laughter clinking like glasses full celebratory drink; and all of it composed around the steady metronome of metal clad feet as they lead the damned to rooms of stone and iron.

This time however, the song of the goddess blind plays off-key. There are far too many instruments; none of them quite harmonizing together. Armours clamour and scrape against each other. There is no steady two-by-two but rather a loud and lousy thunder on the ground. And voices penetrate the wails of the Conciergerie with their mock and laughter...

The guards drag another man into the cold darkness. "Ah!" One cries. His scream is quickly followed by a round of laughs.

"Something wrong Pierre?" one asks.

The guards toss the man into an empty cell. Matthias, the Dane, turns to the guard known as Pierre. "Tis locked away now, see." He says. "The _scary _monster cannot hurt you now. Haha!"

"I am not afraid!" Pierre insists. "I was only...startled. I mean, it _looked _at me! And with such horrible eyes!" He shivers.

Matthias laughs again. "They cannot be too horrible if they are able to look up skirts!" Another round of laughter erupts from the guards.

"Who was that anyway?" one guard asks.

One says, "It was probably some whore."

Another says, "It looked like a gypsy."

"Is there a difference?" Matthias jokes. Again the guards laugh. Matthias faces the arrested man. "Oi!" he shouts. Matthias raps on the iron door. "You are supposed to _pay _them _before _taking them away. Give them a few sols and they will do whatever you want. Though with a face like yours, I doubt even the fortune of King Solomon could get one in bed with you!" All of the guards holler and whoop with unbridled mirth. Tears of cruel joy slip down out of a few eyes. Some struggle and gasp for breath. Still others clutch their stomaches and double over in delight as roars of "Haha!"s, "Tee-hee!"s, and "Hyuk hyuk hyuk!"s fill the large prison.

"Who goes there?" calls out a nearby voice. "Speak up! Who goes there and what is this noise about?" From around the corner emerges Arthur Kirkland with eyebrows bristled in irritation.

"Oh! Minister Kirkland, bon soir!" says Matthias with a smile. He nudges the men around him and gives them a look warning them to quiet themselves. "We are but a few fellows enjoying what this night has given us. And what brings you down here monsieur? Fancy a late stroll?"

"Hardly." Arthur answers curtly. "However, I am wondering why my guards are not outside keeping Paris and her people safe." Not needing another hint, the guards return to their patrol, snickering and joking amongst each other, and leave the not-at-all pleased Minister of Justice behind.

A moment of silence passes...

Ivan twiddles with the tassles of his scarf as he nervously glances around his cell. It is not _terribly _bad. It is dark, cold, and dismal but not a huge difference from what he is used to. Ivan hates the unfamiliarity and misses the comfort of his fellow unwanted gargoyles, but he knows it could be worse. Those bothersome guards could be here with him; yes that would be much worse! Ivan crouches down to peer out of the little barred window on his cell door. He sees his Master on the other side, clutching at his chest and staring ahead at nothing. Perhaps he is waiting for the right moment to let Ivan out? "Master-"

"Hush!" Arthur turns to Ivan. He glides slowly to the door; each step shaking with anger. "You failed me, Ivan."

"But I-"

"Hush!" Arthur brings his hand up as if to strike his charge, but lowers it. Such a thing would be fruitless with the heavy door in the way. "I do not want to hear your apologies or excuses, Ivan." He hisses out through his teeth. "You _failed _me! And for that, I will not help you out of this mess you have gotten yourself into." Arthur leans closer to the door. His words though low in volume do not lose any power or sincerity. "You will accept any and all charges brought upon you and you will face whatever sentence is given. Consider _that _as punishment for your incompetence." With that said, Arthur sharply turns and glides away to the living quarters of the Palais de Justice.

"...Yes Master."

* * *

**A/N: **This is chapter 6 and agh it feels so rushed to me! **ERRGH!**Concerning Peter's view and relationship with his brothers. I will go into more detail about it later. I mean, I did not want to disturb the mood and plot at that point just to go into back story so I am sorry if it appears sloppily glossed over. Once again this chapter was not beta'd so feel free to point out any mistakes.

You guys know how I feel about this chapter, now it's your turn. Really, tell me what you think; what you like, what you don't like, what you want to see, how you feel, etc. Your questions and comments mean a lot to me so do not forget to review.


	7. ANArKH

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. I do however, owe you an apology; sorry it took so long for this chapter to come out.

* * *

_**ANArKH...**_

On the sunning streets of the Ile, an everyday band of crippled gypsy artists orchestrate a clamour of, _"La charite! La charite!" _Leaden legs drag across the cobblestones and poorly bandaged hands, some missing a digit or three, reach out to the hastily scrubbed and hardly stuffed faces of the plebeian mass as voices call for a coin and a bit of mercy. _"Amour! Risque! Bonheur! L'avenir est dans des vos mains!" _Some voices, ones belonging to able bodies, preach enticingly of secrets unlocked; of knowledge concerning the future and beyond. Other able bodied ones do not need to shout in order to draw attention. Instead, they perform in hopes of gaining an honest pay. And of course, there are those who will argue that honesty will only warrant hunger, pain, and death and they are the ones who take what they can by any means; be it through deceit or stealing.

Antonio is one of these gypsies. A Spanish-born traveller, Antonio has learnt to save his lute for those who are more loose with their money and instead earns his meals by collecting unattended, unprotected coins and coin purses.

Currently, Antonio is standing in a captivated crowd, facing a pair of gypsy jugglers. While everyone else watches the glintering daggers fly back and forth between the experienced couple, Antonio looks the crowd over for monetary coins desperate to exchange hands. The first person Antonio takes into consideration is a young woman standing at the fringe of the crowd. Should he make his way over to her, no one would think anything of it; he would come off as a man calmly leaving the disorganized throng instead of a thief. And if the children tugging on her skirts indicate anything to someone like Antonio, it is that the young woman is a stressed out mother, lost in her own thoughts and desensitized to the slight touch of a blade skillfully cutting a purse: the perfect target.

Unfortunately though, Antonio suffers from having a strong inner voice that disapproves of taking bread from the mouths of children. "She is young and fair looking," he tells the voice. "It would not be difficult for her to earn back what she looses." But the voice would not relent and eventually, it spoiled Antonio's plans. "Be that way!" Antonio silently yells at that meddlesome voice. "Should we go hungry, you keep your complaints quiet!"

The next target to consider is a portly man standing a little closer. Antonio knows the risk involved with picking a pocket so deep within the crowd: he could easily be caught and arrested. Looking at the man's coin purse though, Antonio knows it would be all too easy. He only needs to shuffle a few steps to his left and gently pull at the thread so sloppily stitched into the side of the purse. All sorts of coins would fall into his palms, happy to be out of the clutches of an idiot, and Antonio would be happy too. Given the quality of the man's clothes and his rounded shape, there are undoubtedly some gold francs inside; not many but if there is only one, Antonio would not complain. However, as tempting as the thought of gold francs are, Antonio does not want to chance causing a scene- especially while in such a dense mass- so he scans over the crowd yet again for an easier target. This time, Antonio notices a young man stumbling over to the crowd. With rumpled clothes, a face flushed (most likely from liquor), and a lazy smile that can only come from what many consider to be the greatest pleasure consecrated upon the mortal coil, it is reasonable to assume that the drunken fool has just come from a _wonderful _night at a nearby bordel. Of course, what is most remarkable about this young man is the pair of over stuffed coin purses dangling from his belt ties.

Antonio smiles.

It is not the deranged display of teeth many often associate with the vagabond grin, but rather a cheery exhibition for Antonio knows that it would not take much effort for him to initiate an "exchange" between himself and the fellow. The fool- still stumbling through his alcohol and sex induced euphoria- would never see him coming. Antonio could "accidentally" bump into him, rid him the burden of having to heft such a heavy load of coin, and disappear into the living commerce before anyone became wise of what happened.

His smile brightens.

A strange yet natural sense of elation and satisfaction ripples along Antonio's skin as the small and sharp extension of himself slides forth from his sleeve and nestles in the palm of his dominant hand. With steps casual but calculated, Antonio makes his way out of the crowd-

**(!)**

-and is immediately pulled aside. Antonio trips and drops his blade as the hand latched onto his arm drags him around a corner. "_¡Cómo!_" Antonio glances upward, ready to punch the stubbled face of his diverter when- "Francois?...¿Qué estás haciendo?!" Antonio looks back to where the drunken would-be-patron was and watches helplessly as the idiot stumbles away.

"Are you so foolish to think that someone as drunk as him has not been robbed yet?" Francois asks; his voice flowing at an uncharacteristically sullen speed. "That man was coinless before sunrise. His pouches are most likely weighed down by pebbles and wood chips."

Antonio sighs. Not able to hold a grudge, Antonio lets go of his unpleasant anger. He looks amongst the crowd he had recently been immersed in. Bodies are shifting within the hub. People leave, taking their money with them. "Francois...this better be important," he says. "I have work to do, and if you came here only to boast about how many women or men you shared you bed with last-"

"Do you know where the boys are?"

"...¿Qué?" Antonio raises a brow as an uncanny feeling sinks in. Something is definitely not right. This is not how their conversations usually went. Even their more serious discussions- which are more frequent than one would think- usually contain a splash of banter. Both of them would smile and laugh while they jest at themselves either with vulgar comments or clever insults before getting to the heart of the conversation. So this straightforwardness from Francois seems a little unnerving.

"The boys...Have you seen them? Do you know where they are?"

Antonio looks at Francois. He _really _looks at him; at his reddened and dark-rimmed eyes; at his skin sickly pale and drizzled with an anxious sheen; at his hair, no longer a prideful golden coif but rather a tangled and yellowed heap; at his chin devoid of its beard and replaced with the barbed whiskers more commonly found on a haggard heretic hanging in a gibbet. "_Her_ boys?"

Francois flinches at the reference. "Yes," he softly breathes. "They did not come home last night."

Antonio scratches at his neck. "They are grown," he says nonchalantly, "Or at least Matthew is...This is not the first time they have spent a night away from home and you yourself have gone days without even looking at them. What makes it so dire now?"

Francois stares off to the distance. His eyes glaze over as they focus on nothing in particular. He shivers. The cool January breeze feels more like an icy gale. Seconds transcend into an infinity as the two men stand in silence. When Francois finally speaks, it is in a voice far too weak for someone of his standing and reputation. "_She _came to me last night..."

Antonio shudders. He tells himself that it is only the wind but that small lie gives him no comfort. "Who?" he asks, though he knows it is a pointless question...

He already knows the answer.

"_Alice..._"

* * *

Darkness...That is the first sensation that Matthew becomes aware of. Darkness and a low, unclear burble. It briefly reminds him of being pushed into a river- floating in a cool, watery seplechre, stunned in a terse moment of eternity, and mildly uncaring of the sounds of people above. But just as that moment of immobile shock gives way to burning panic, so does this moment in this barely conscious state. Matthew sluggishly thrashes through his sombre haze. Slowly he swims to the world of the living, becoming more aware of the voices around, of the fuzzy veil of sleep lifting, of the light fluttering in through his heavy eyelids, of the slight pain reverberating along his back and to his head, and suddenly the memory of running in terror last night raids his mind.

Matthew gasps. His eyes fly open wide and he sits up to take in his surroundings. Walls, a table, a basin, and a chair are the first things that Matthew notices. The second is Alfred sleeping in another chair close by, and the third is the straw mattress bed elevated in a frame of wood. It is strange, uncomfortable, and nothing at all like what Matthew was used to. Last, he sees his glasses sitting on the table. Hastily, he stretches a shaky arm out to old and scratched lenses. When he pulls back with the poorly crafted wire frames in hand, his skin brushes against something hard and smooth that he could not properly see. Startled, he jerks his arm back, accidentally knocking the thing in the process. Of course, it makes a clopping sound after plummeting to the floor and Matthew, after fixing the glasses onto his face, leans over to see what the thing is. "A box?" Matthew picks up the small, open box filled with bandages, a wineskin, and a wooden pestle and motor.

"You looked horrible last night..." Matthew turns around. After Alfred yawns and stretches rather languidly, the two look into each others eyes. The moment streches painfully as neither can bring themsleves to speak. The spasms of Matthew's tounge prohibits him from properly articulating his numerous thoughts. Alfred, put off from the thick silence, bunches at his skirt. He twists the fabric in his fists and in an uncharacteristically small voice asks, "Does it hurt?"

"...What?"

Alfred wriggles in his seat. "Well...um...I mean-"

"Alfred, where are we?" Matthew asks in a deadpan manner.

"Oh! Um, I think-"

Impassively again, he interrupts. "And why are we here?"

"Well, last night-"

"Better yet, why are _you _here?! And where is Peter?! And what happened last night?! It is a bit of a blur but I know that I explicitly told you to take Peter home!"

"Well, I tried but-"

"I cannot believe you, Alfred! You deliberately disobeyed me! Actually, now that I think aboot it, this is typical behaviour from you! You _never _listen!"

"But Mattie, I-"

Well, the least you could do is explain yourself, eh Alfred?"

Alfred angrily puffs his cheeks. Frustrated, he says, "I could if you would just let me!"

Normally the sound of a door opening is hardly noticed by human ears for usually doors open when one expects them to, when one is comfortably in their home or visiting another home; but when one wakes up in an unfamliliar enviroment, with recent memories filled with dread, and aware of the fact that an unknown amount of time has obviously passed by without any recollection of getting from one place to another, then any sudden noises would seem louder than usual and would certainly elicit feelings of shock. So when the door swings open unexpectedly and abruptly, Matthew almost leaps out of his skin. He relaxes though when he sees the rude "intruder".

In trots Kumajirou, wagging his knub of a tail and excitedly as he hops onto Matthew's mattress. Shortly after, Peter runs in with his tiny arms full of fresh-picked apple blossoms. His happy babble of "Mattie!Mattie!Mattie!" and "Didyouseeit?Didyouseeit?" bounces throughout the room, diffuseing across the slowly cooling atmosphere. He too jumps on the straw bed, landing hard onto his eldest brother's gut; drawing out an "oomph!" from Matthew.

"Ah! Peter!" A young woman with a plump, round face and short blond hair tied in twin tails runs into the room and hurries to the now crowded bed. She scoops Kumajirou into her arms. "I thought I told you not to- Oh!" The woman looks at Matthew and graces him with a gentle smile. "I see you have awoken already."

Matthew lifts a far too energetic Peter and places him in Alfred's lap. He turns back to the young woman. "Pardonnez-moi, demoiselle," Matthew mentally slaps himself. Here he is in a stranger's house, maybe against his will, definitely without his knowledge or approval. He _should _be angry. He _should _be upset. He _should _be lashing out in alarm and rage, demanding to be directed to an exit, and bashing his flute over the heads of anyone who stands in his way; but Matthew cannot bring himself to act in such a way at the moment. Perhaps his anger and irritaion has dissipated during while venting to Alfred. "Could you tell me where I am?"

"Oh!" The young woman turns to Matthew and gives him an honest smile. "I am married see?" She repositions the bear cub, supporting him on her hip and waves her left hand; showing off the metal band around her ring finger. "And my husband brought you here to our house very late last night. Do you not remember?"

Matthew closes his eyes. Images of a dark alleyway, a large shadow, and a large pair of hooves flash before him. He feels throbbing phantom pains, mostly on his forehead but also across his back and he hears faint garbled voices. He sighs. "No...I do not think that I do."

The woman giggles nervously as she sets the cub down. "You were hit pretty hard." She walks closer to Matthew but politely keeps some distance between them. "Your bandage probably needs to be changed."

Matthew brings a hand up to his head. His fingers trace over the rough cloth that he had been unaware of. He presses lightly and quickly retracts his hand when pain flares up.

"That is," the woman pauses. "Unless _you _want to do it..." she says, gesturing to Alfred.

Alfred shifts around in the chair in a feeble attempt to maintain a grip on the squirming eight-year-old boy. He has one arm wrapped around Peter and with his other arm, he tries to wash his little brother's face. "Um...my hands are kind of full." Alfred dips a part of his dark blue hip scarf into the water filled basin, squeezes it, and then brings the cloth to Peter's scrunched and constantly moving face.

The young woman laughs softly. "Of course they are. Pardon me." She drags the other chair beside Matthew, sits on it, and takes the box from his hands. "Oh! I forgot. We did not exactly meet, did we? I am Tinja." She says sweetly. "I helped stitch you up after that unfortunate incident last night."

Matthew lightly hisses as Tinja applies a gentle amount of wine to his head wound. "What incident?"

"You were hit by Monsieur Berwald's horse!"

"Peter!" Alfred scrubs Peter's face slightly harder as a punishment.

"Agh! But tis true!"

"That may be, but you do not need to say that with a smile! And his name is Monsieur Oxenstierna."

"Monsieur Oxenstierna?" Matthew muses. "Your husband, n'est pas?"

"Oui. He is a carpenter- Ah!" Tinja drops the bandages. She waves her palms and shakes her head back and forth. "Of course, he did not intend to hit you! It was an accident! But...the horse became startled and he lost control." Tinja picks up the bandages and proceeds to dress Matthew's wound. "He truly is sorry about what happened and even went looking for your brothers after you mentioned them."

From the corners of his eyes, Matthew takes in the image of his brothers still fussing amongst themselves. The two of them look to be in good condition; no marks or bruises, Peter's knees are clean and bandaged, both even give off an exuberant air usually associated with full bellies and restful nights. Whatever barely bubbling anger there is leftover from his squabble with Alfred dies completely. He looks back to Tinja and says, "That was very kind of you and your husband. Merci."

"D' rien." Matthew looks to the doorframe, where the new voice came from. A tall, tall, unbelieveably tall and quite muscular man, who must be M. Oxenstierna, stands on the other side. Berwald bends to walk through the doorway into the now too small and too cramped room and Matthew forgets to breathe as those stern and intense greenish-blue eyes lock onto him. "Ça va?"

After adjusting to the turbulent waves of what Matthew hopes is unintentional intimidation, Matthew finds the breath to speak again. His words however come out meeker than usual. "Ç-ça va bien...M-merci."

Ever impassive, Berwald grunts his response.

"Bonjour Ber!" Tinja smiles at her husband. Reading the atmosphere, she has a feeling that her patient is uncomfortable; and from experience, she is certain that her husband is rather embarrassed as well. "I am glad to see that you are taking a break from work." She says with cheer, hoping to ease the painfully awkward ambience.

Again, Berwald grunts. " I came t' ch'ck on 'r guests."

"Everyone in here is doing fine, Ber! There is nothing to worry about." Tinja absent-mindedly pokes her tounge out as she concentrates on the final step regarding Matthew's head injury. With one hand, she steadies Matthew's head and with her other hand, she carefully pins the bandage in place. "Well, that should take care of that!" Tinja gathers her medical supplies and places them back onto the table.

Matthew touches the area where the gash is, feeling the smooth stitching underneath. Politely he bows his head to Tinja. "Merci madame." He nods to Berwald. "And merci Monsieur. Thank you for taking us in." Matthew gestures at his brothers who were both making wreaths with the blossoms Peter picked.

"Oh yes- merci monsieur!" Alfred says with a sweet smile.

"Yeah! Merci Berwald!"

"'s nothing," Bewald grunts. "Our 'ome is always op'n to those 'n need." He extends one of his large, wood-dust covered hands to Tinja. "M' w'fe will pr'pare some food f'r you 'nd your family."

Nervously, Matthew smiles. "Oh no! You do not have to- That is not-"

"I 'nsist."

Matthew finds himself dumbly nodding along as Berwald focuses an intense gaze in his direction. "V-very well then...M-merci..."

With a final grunt, Berwald leaves the room, bending slightly in order to fit through the door frame.

Matthew holds his breath as a series of ice cold moments pass within the room, courtesy of their kind yet intimidating host. He comes back to reality when Peter jumps onto the bed again. The little boy thrusts a clumsily made wreath into his face and asks Matthew for his opinion. Matthew smiles softly. "You did a good job Peter." He says while ruffling the little boys hair.

"I want to give it to Tinja. Do you think she would like it?"

"Of course she would." Matthew turns to face Alfred. He rubs his arm as a gnawing sense of guilt comes over him. "Alfie," he quietly calls. "I...sorry. I freaked out and...my behaviour was unreasonable. I should not have acted in that way."

Alfred stills in a rather silly position as he is detangling old and dirty blossoms from his sunny locks. His lips purse as he loses himself in thought. "Tis nothing." He resumes his finger-combing, making sure to gather the crumpled flowers in his lap to avoid making a mess. "I mean, I understand why you were upset, but you _have_ to believe me Mattie! I really did try to make it home last night!"

"Yeah! Tis not his fault that a monster chased us!"

"Peter..." Matthew slaps his hand across Peter's bum. "How many times have I told you not to lie to me? Tis one thing to have an imagination, but to blantantly-"

"I most certainly am _NOT _lying!"

_SMACK!_

"I have also told you not to interrupt people."

"Mattie..." Alfred jumps a little as both of this brother give him attention. Awkwardly, he wrings his hands and tries not to look either one in their eyes. "I-well...hmm," Against his will, Alfred's lips curl into a shy smile. A coy blush dusts across his cheeks as his thoughts drift back to the night before. "Peter is not lying." His gaze drift out to the window to a sky of wonderful blue..._filled with promises_..."Um- about last night..."

* * *

**A/N: **Are you mad at me?...It's fine if you are, I understand.

It has come to my attention that some (or probably all) of you are itching to get to the romance and, I will not lie, that was supposed to have focus in _this _chapter. But after I started writing, I was like, "Yeah..._that _has to wait." People please be patient with me! I am trying to set things up so that they don't seem **_horribly contrived_**later on. The next chapter will focus on Ivan's trial/sentence and that scene that always make me cry...And **_NO!_**It will not take as long for that one to come out.

As always, this chapter was not beta'd. So if you find any mistakes, tell me please and I will correct them.

I probably should have mentioned this earlier but Tinja is fem!Finland. Sorry if she (and everyone else) is kinda ooc.

This is definitely a weak chapter and I have no idea how to feel about it. I mean, there was so much at first and it has gone through several rewrites and a great deal of was edited out. Leaving that stuff in would have made it less choppy but then it would have dragged on and ugh! If you found some enjoyment then, _awesome!_It means that I have not failed you!

Please leave a review. Feedback both negative and positive is important. Of course, if you have any questions, feel free to ask. Your voice(es) really do mean a lot to me.


	8. The Man of Many Sins

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

Anita Thomassen is fem!Norway, Emil Thomassen is Iceland, and Mathias is Denmark. (I don't think I mentioned that before.) Yeah...Mathias is kind of a dick in this fic. I'm sorry but it's all a part of the plan!

* * *

_**The Man of Many Sins...**_

Upon entering a certain courtroom within the Palais de Justice on this day of January fourteenth, one odd and unaccompanied Lady Anita Thomassen is welcomed within an audience of studious scholars, stroking their beards and congratulating themselves for their agreement upon the judgement, and overgrown schoolboys who prefer to entertain themselves and each other with wild stories of the _undoubtedly _woeful and sullied histories of the guilty. Of course, a few ladies, all of whom are politely acquainted with the quiet and dear Lady Anita, also enjoy visiting the courts; coming in the name of God to offer a small, silent and scripted prayer for those hellbound souls whose names and faces will be fuddled within their lazy imaginations.

After exchanging greetings expected of the well-bred, Anita glides into her usual chair; making sure the silk and velvet of her dress lays perfectly to avoid wrinkles. Resembling a perfect and pristine portrait, Anita fixes her Nordic Cross barrette before folding her hands in her lap and stares inscrutably ahead.

Beyond the seats of the educated, there is a large chair carved of oak and belonging to one of Judge Kirkland's lesser judges, Messire Sadik Adnan. Beside the grand chair, there stands a desk where an auditor, one young Master Emil Thomassen, sits; ready to conduct the legal proceedings. Now, it is no secret that the elderly Messire Sadik is almost deaf. It also is not a problem, for hearing impairment does not impair one's ability to arbitrate. In fact, Messire Sadik has countless times boasted that his aged ears serve more as a benefit than a hinderance; for his near soundless world allows him to think clearly without being distracted by any noise. For, as one would expect, there is usually much noise during Messire Sadik's court sessions; and though Messire Sadik is able to act in silent bliss- though most of the spectators thoroughly enjoy the trial and whatever humor may come of it- there is always one who finds such days to be stressful, the auditor, Master Emil Thomassen.

Imagine having to take notes, continue your studies, and keep the hearings running as smooth and efficient as possible, all the while trying to ignore the annoying rabble mocking the court and trying to get information through to the old, hard of hearing judge! That is what Emil faces almost everyday from eight o'clock in the morning until four o'clock after the noon hour. And on top of that, he must do so under the almost lifeless gaze of his older sister! Yes, when Anita comes in, respectfully after morning mass, and observes him in his work, Emil feels the embarrassment creep up his neck. However, should anyone ask Emil a certain question pertaining to the occurence, he would never respond to it due to both his modesty and his inability to think of a proper response. That question being, "Which is worse: having your sister hovering around or having to watch that Danish oaf of a guard hover around her?"

"Bonjour Madamoiselle~" Emil frowns when he hears the voice of the rowdy lout but resumes his note taking anyway.

Mathias saunters, as is routine of him, to the lovely Lady Thomassen, his teeth flashing in that conceited manner unique to all over-confident womanizers. "Lady Anita, you are looking as lovely as ever." As is routine, Mathias takes her delicate fingers in his, bringing the cold and soft outer palm up while bending to bestow upon it a kiss. "You could not stand to spend your sunday away from me, I see?" And as is routine, Anita makes a sharp retract before any contact could be made. Mathias, ignoring the stinging pain her nails have caused him, chooses to believe the action to be that of a coy and virtuous maiden safeguarding her chastity.

"Good sir, you _know _why I attend these hearings, and you know that it has nothing to do with your idiosyncratic beliefs."

Mathias laughs, boisterous and with contempt. "Those are quite large words for such a pretty little lady!" He signals a few guards working under his command to escort the convicted away. "Fifteens sols for having worn two rosaries! Tis somewhat dear but such is the way of things, right Lady Anita?"

"Please be quiet. You are disrupting the proceedings."

"Disrupting? How? Tis not as if dear old _Messire_ Sadik can hear me." Mathias turns to face the judge and with a smile and respectful bow he says for everyone to hear, "Sadik, you are a fat, old goat!"

"Yes, thank you young man." Messire Sadik says with a hearty chortle. His belly, round from his numerous helpings of gourmet and ashure, jiggles within his long and luxurious green robes. "And you are doing an excellent job yourself. You and your men, keep up the good work." As the audience takes part in shameless snickering, Messire Sadik calls for the next case and Emil brings forth the proper papers.

Anita glares coldly at the roguish guard. In a voice low and laced with ice, she scolds him saying, "I expect men of the suit to have more respect."

"Darling Anita, did you not know that I am the greatest and most respectable guard and soldier in all of Paris? In all of France?! In the entire world even!"

"How tragic..."

"Yes, in fact," Mathias smirks, failing to notice the snide remark. "Last night I _single-handedly _bested a beast and rescued a comely little demoiselle- Ah! B-but you are far more lovely, dear Anita!" Mathias laughs nervously, hoping to conceal his slip-up. With a flourish, he conjures his beloved axe, seemingly from nowhere, as another attempt to distract Anita. "For you, I would slay every monster and villain!"

Anita sighs and looks away, tired of the same old song-and-dance. "As you would for every lady you entertain..."

"Oh sweet, sweet Anita! If only fair, virtuous maidens such as yourself were capable of withstanding such a sight...If only you could have seen it." Mathias puts away his axe and rubs his chin, hoping to appear mature and dignified. "It stood at least twenty-seven hands high!" He says while performing a ridiculous pantomime. "And it had these large and horrible eyes- _violet!_- like some sort of scrying glass!"

"If you say so..."

"I swear it! But you probably would not believe me or even be able to imagine such a gruesome sight..."

Anita again sighs. "I wonder what gave you that impression."

"Of course, tis a blessing that women are unable to see such disgusting things in their delicate mind's eye." Mathias carries on, ignoring the irritated twitch of Anita's brow. "After all, I would hate to see you fall faint from fright."

And at first Anita does not believe him, for demonic creatures can only be vanquished by angels wielding swords of righteous might. But then comes the sound of many guards; their feet stomping and shuffling through the dimly lit halls. The audience hushes in anticipation, the judge and auditor settle at their desk, papers signed, sealed, stamped, and filed away, and Anita who since birth has always had a mostly melancholic expression to matched her dull and rather melancholic blue eyes, goes pale and her eyes widen. Her brows along with her breathing and heartbeat rise and for a moment, Anita does feel light-headed. Not wanting to risk losing consciousness or swooning into the arms of the infuriatingly obnoxious lieutenant, she turns away unable to look directly at the creature brought forth. Moments later, the shuffling stops. As a ghastly feeling washes over everyone, making their hairs stand, their spines shiver, and their skin swell like goose-flesh, the sound of a collected breath hitching is heard followed by Messire Sadik vocalizing what is sure to be floating about in everyone's mind.

_"By Jove! What is that?!"_

In walks Ivan, roped and pinioned under a squad of guards. Assisting the guards is the honorable Cdr. Basch, who not since earning his rank has ever handled the escort of a criminal. Apart from the intimidating circle however, there is not much to Ivan; nothing except for his deformity to justify the number of weapons pointed in his direction. Even should one argue that his sheer size warranted extra measures of precaution, one look at his lame leg, kicked and trod upon by metal clad feet, would put those concerns to rest. Plus, Ivan is gloomy and silent. He has the disposition not of a lion clawing at its cage but rather of a horse; spirit broken and tame, allowing itself to be led. Only every so often did his eyes lift to cast a wrathful glance upon his abrading and tight bonds. When his feet finally stop, as well as the pulling and shoving, Ivan directs his dull and sleepy eyes about the courtroom, taking everything in.

The scholars scoff at him, some from behind embroidered handkerchiefs.

The immature schoolboys and a few guards laugh loudly, knowing that there will be no ramifications for such conduct.

The women, the few present, sneak glances at him and whisper to each other in silent derision.

Emil clears his throat to quiet the crows in vain hopes that the court will not be turned into a farce. He hands over the document of complaint against Ivan to the judge. Messire Sadik, thanks to his condition, is always careful to examine the documents before addressing the wrongdoers brought before him; making sure to know beforehand their names, titles (if any), and misdeeds. This way, his deafness would not be terribly apparent. Of course, he always follows the etiquette of justice; hoping to further delude himself or the few (usually the accused) unaware of his hearing and the people, who have nothing to gain or lose by pointing out the illusion, humor him and keep the information to themselves. So when Messire Sadik confidently commands, "State your name" nobody says anything. However when Ivan, not quite used to speaking to or in front of anyone besides his master, says nothing, the judge, being deaf, thought that he had answered as all accused usually do and consequently continues. "Yes. And your age?"

At that, giggles ripple throughout the courtroom.

Again the words die in Ivan's throat; snuffed out by an overhwelming amount of embarrassment and anxiety. Oh! If only his wrists were free, then he could find comfort in the tassels of his scarf.

"Of course. And your profession?"

The giggles grow in voices and volume, stretching through the air, forming into a bitter and sharp laugh. The remaining spectators, once silent and believing themselves to be above such foolishness, now begin whispering to one another. And when Messire Sadik, ignorant of the defendant's silence and of the audience's noise says, "That will do" with the pride of an accomplished man, most if not all present shake with mirth.

"What luck!" Mathias says. "The _stupid_ on trial before the _deaf_!"

Ivan's cheeks burn as the laughter continues. He prays, oh how he prays! Let the earth swallow him! Let him shrink! Let him fade away as vapor! Anything to escape the burn of his cheeks, his ears, his neck! His feet itch; wanting nothing more than to flee to the safety of his tower but there are halberds at every side of him and Cdr. Basch even a number of arquebuses at the ready! Endurance is his only escape.

Messire Sadik, believing that his question had been answered, looks over his documents and addresses Ivan again. "You stand here before us accused of: _Primo-_ causing a nocturnal disturbance; _Secundo- _striking, and attempting to rob and violate the person of a prostitute; _Tertio- _rebellion against the soldiers of our lord, the king. Explain yourself."

"..."

"Master Emil, did you write that down?" At this the entire room shakes with a burst of cackling. The laughter, so violent and contagious, rattles the auditor's desk; making papers scatter, the ink splatter, and already overworked Emil scramble to right what took hours of work and organization. Messire Sadik has no choice but to notice it and thinks that the laughter had to have come from some quip of the accused, hiding _cowardly _behind that scarf of his! "You dare to mock me, monstrous knave?!" screams the angry judge. "You dare to make a mockery of the king's court?! Of the ones appointed to keep order and charged with the task of searching out evil conduct?!"

Still Ivan says nothing. What can he say? Even if by some miracle his tongue manages to overcome paralysis, he was ordered to accept any charges brought against him. Even without the ropes, his hands are tied!

"For your disloyalty, disrespect, and offence against the court as well as the accusations that I have indeed found you guilty of, I demand a penalty fitting of your crimes!" Messire Sadik then turns to the guards surrounding Ivan and looks for the highest rank amongst them. "Commander Basch," he calls, his voice still ablaze with wrath. "You are to take this creature to the pillory of the Notre Dame Square, where he shall be flogged and turned for one hour. Emil, draw up the account of the sentence!"

And Emil set to work doing so. The process is simple and quick but Emil's hands, weighed down by a slight feeling of pity for the large and disfigured man, move at a slow pace. Of course, the deformity is unnerving and the man is guilty in both his eyes and the eyes of the law, but the punishment seems a little harsh for someone who did not speak a single word. With well-meaning intent, he quietly and carefully whispers to Messire Sadik, "I think that man might be deaf or mute. He never said anything."

Perhaps Sadik, having had made a nice live for himself even with his impairment, has no sympathy for those with handicaps? Perhaps Sadik, hard of hearing, does not understand the low words of his auditor? Perhaps Sadik knows _exactly _what Emil said but being of such authority and respect, does not want there to be any evidence, whether stated in public or kept on document, of him making a mistake? Either way, Sadik raises his eyebrows and gives a half-hearted screech of, "Eh!" and dismisses the potentially embarrassing situation saying, "I did not know that. In that case, add one hour more to the pillory." And with a flourish, he alters and signs the sentence account and dismisses the concern. "Send in the next one."

* * *

Perhaps before continuing with the narrative, it would be best to entertain a random yet important thought. It is astonishing and curious how a place could look cheerful and inviting one day and on another it could be cold and menacing. After all, just last week, the Notre Dame Square was alive with a bright and festive spirit. Now the remains of the public feast are scattered about like the picked and pecked bones of a carcass. Shreds of ribbons, flags, and cloth, along with discarded crumbs of food, too moldy to salvage, litter the streets and shops; waiting for wind or rain to wash them away. Even so, another celebration, in someway the same and in someway different, is about to take place here once again.

If the courtroom is the gathering place of the scholars, then the pillory is said to be for the common populace. For after a grueling week of work, people love to spend their Sunday, after mass of course, caught in the blood and circus of public prosecution. So at noon when four guards are placed at the corners of the pillory in the Notre Dame Square, an eager crowd flocks with the hope of witnessing some kind of an execution- not a hanging or anything of the fatal sort, but perhaps a beating, or some sort of righteous violence to entertain them and reward them of their obedience and patience.

Coming from the Palais de Justice is the cart holding the victim of the hour, still bound and surrounded.

Ivan is led to and up the steep stairway and presented for the gathering crowd where he is met with laughter, howls, and insults. All of which mingle into a muffled roar, not loud enough to compete with the pounding of his heart and the blood rushing through his ears. The faces, all familiar and well etched into his memory, appear as smudges of paint as the hard and cold green eyes of his master stare into his.

Judge Kirkland sits under the shade of his viewing tent. His scowl, while there, is not nearly as intesne as it was last night; and for that Ivan is grateful. If the noble and high judge sees him going through his punishment, atoning for his failure, maybe Ivan will once again have his favour. It is the only hope that Ivan has and the only thing that will help him through.

_"You failed me, Ivan."_

Ivan clenches his jaw at the memory but otherwise he remains impassive. That is something that he wants to _never_ hear again. "I will _not_ fail." He tells himself.

_"I will not help you out of this mess you have gotten yourself into."_

Ivan is pushed to the main device of the pillory, a horizontal wheel of strong and solid wood. His ropes are replaced with chains. The metal manacles cut and chafe into the already raw flesh of his wrists as he is shackled to the wheel on his knees with his hands behind his back. His scarf his removed rather violently and he watches with a shudder as it falls before him. Without intending to, Ivan's muscles twitch and strain for his scarf. He knows that a scarf could not possibly save him from his judgement, but he is still overcome with the urge to obtain his one bit of _real_ hope and happiness, just out of reach. And Ivan probably would have kept trying to reach for it, had it not been for his shirt being torn open. His broad torso laid bare for everyone to see.

Under the scorching gaze of his master, Ivan endures through the wild and cruel laughter. He tightens his jaw, grinding his jagged teeth as the people laugh viciously at his marked, scarred, and hairy back and shoulders. During the jeer and the humor, Ivan notices a man step up to the wheel. He only sees what he needs to see; the heavy boots and the trailing end of a braided, leather whip. Ivan tenses.

This man, a Dutch guard chosen to inflict the justice, raises an hourglass filled with red sand for all to see. He turns it over and sets it down, marking the official start of the punishment. With two heavy stomps, he signals to start the turning of the pillory wheel.

Ivan, too busy anticipating the fall of the whip, is not expecting the sudden movement. His shock breaks through his emotionless facade and the crowd, seeing the surprise on his ugly face, double their laughter.

"What an idiot!" Mathias, who just moments ago protested against being dragged away from his Lady Anita, is the loudest of them all. "Hahaha! The fun is about to begin!"

At a moment unexpected, Ivan feels the furious fall of the whip before he hears it.

_SNAP! CRACK!_

Ivan leaps in his chains. He writhes in pain and surprise and emits a throaty grunt; but other than that, he keeps silent.

Another strike follows the first, and then another, and then another, each falling into a steady, agonizing beat until Ivan loses count.

With each revolution of the pillory wheel, Ivan sees his scarf, his constant companion and comfort, stained and sprinkled with the splatter of his own blood. He can only imagine the red rivers flowing down his burning back. A different man would probably struggle pitifully, trying to escape but not Ivan. With each lash, he forces himself to stay silent and still as the laughter of the crowd and the words of his master ring loudly through his ears.

_"Consider _that_ as punishment for your incompetence."_

The whip crashes a few more times before Ivan is given a moment of rest...but it is only for a moment. After half of the sand has fallen, the Dutch guard wipes his brow and hands over the whip, only to grab a cat o' tails made out of spindly strands of leather. Each of the nine tails has two knots of varying sizes tied in them designed to cut and drag into the skin.

Multiple _cracks _are heard as the tails tear apart Ivan's already sore and tattered flesh. Despite his best attempt, a high and guttural scream rips out of Ivan's throat. His blood peppers the closer spectators as they cheer for more, more, more! Again the cat strikes, and again, and again. By the time the last tail leaves, the first one falls again; never easing off of the searing and blood-soaked skin. This time, Ivan flexes and fights in his chains. His primal need to flee and hide, hide, hide in the bell tower that he misses so much causes him the thrash like a desperate animal. More cracks! More screams! As the manacles creak and strain under this newfound force, they retaliate; cutting deeper into his wrist and now more blood pools under the iron.

More strikes, this time they are accompanied with a swift kick to his side. "Be still, _bell-ringer_."

Out of air and out of energy, Ivan slumps in exhaustion.

More cracks! More pain! More blood!

But there is nothing he can do. So he sits with his head hanging low and his eyes closed, screaming and praying for relief above the cheers of Paris.

Caught up in the spectacle, neither the excited folk nor Ivan, notices the irony of it all. From afar, under his tent and away from any attention, Judge Kirkland is amused with the strange paradox; how just one week prior, in this festive spot, Ivan was praised as the fool king. People hailed his appearance, chanted his name, and sang of the happiness his mere presence brought them. Now those same fools who made him their mock king chastise him in the name of beautiful justice. Judge Kirkland smirks. "That ought to teach him."

* * *

Finally the last grain of sand drops. The spinning pillory stops and the guard leaves. Ivan, twitching and choking on air, is cleaned and treated with an ointment for his fresh lacerations. He remains shackled in place however, as the hourglass is turned over and the second hour of justice begins.

Now, forgive me for diverging from the narrative once more but there is another idea to reflect upon and unfortunately, it does not seem to really fit in anywhere. Already it has been stated that Ivan is different- ugly. And for that reason, he has been treated with hostility from the few people he has ever truly encountered (_aside from the good judge, Minister Kirkland of course_). Why this happens, is something of a mystery. Perhaps it is in mankind's nature to strive for conformity as much as for individuality, and because of Ivan's inability to even _feign _conformity, he is cast aside and treated as such? Or perhaps it has to do with the fact that Ivan has never been social, and so never forming a bond with anyone other than his master, he has no one to care for or consider him? Or perhaps the thought process of the people is that God would never make a person _that _ugly, unless He has a reason to; unless their ugliness is actually a manifestation and a warning of their true character? Either way, for some inexplicable reason, the good people of Paris _hate _Ivan. Everyone one watching him sitting on that pillory believes themselves to have a just reason for their hate; and so they all take delight in watching and adding to his suffering.

So with the flogging over, and another hour to "teach that damned bell-ringer" a lesson, the crowd, drunk on fury and repulsed at his ugliness, take part in delivering their own special brand of justice.

"Face of the Devil!" hollers one woman.

"Son of a witch!" cries one man.

"What tragedy!" yells another. "A monster takes refuge in the house of God! The rest of your days should be spent on your knees at this very spot!"

"Violet-eyed monster!"

"Accursed bell-ringer!"

"Bringer of storms! Of plagues! Of bad crops! Burden on us all!"

"Ugly enough to make a woman miscarry!"

"Not even a mother could love that sort of face!"

And countless other insults are hurled at him. They pierce him like an arrow to a snared rabbit, but Ivan makes no noise. He does not stir. He only casts an unsteady glare about the crowd; one eye filled with spite, the other watering with sorrow.

"Oi! You think he's ugly now?" Mathias says to his fellow guards. "Watch this?" And he grabs a tomato, spoiling from a poor vendor nearby, and throws it at Ivan's head. Hitting him just above the eye, fruit and juice splash into Ivan's hair and drips down half of his face. "Now that's ugly! Hahaha!"

And with that comes even more insults, and more laughter, and more projectiles such as rotting food (_no sense in wasting anything edible_) and rocks. As he undergoes the abuse, Ivan is not sure which part of him hurts more; his body or his spirit?

"Will you cast spells on us in your tower?" cries an old man. He lobs a rock in such a way that it bounces off of Ivan's back twice. "That will teach you to dabble in black magic!"

"I heard that he had hexed and tried to make off with a prostitute!" announces a short old woman. "Trying to add to your numbers? Trying to run amok with little hellspawns at your side? You should die!" and she pelts him with fruit.

"You jinxed my wife as she passed you, and now because of you, she has only birthed stillborn children!"

A rock to the shoulder.

"My best cow birthed a calf with two heads!"

A rock to his chest.

"You sent the storm that set my house on fire!"

A soaked and molding roll of bread to his side.

"You sent the sickness that took my son!"

A browning head of lettuce to his nose followed by a rock.

Such is the pattern as the sand slowly sinks to the bottom of the hourglass...

* * *

**A/N: **...


End file.
